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 ^ BEAUTIFUL BOUQUETS, 
 CULLED FROM THE POETS OF ALL COUNTRIES. 
 
 THE 
 
 FORGET-ME-NOT. 
 
 Wx\\ Colounir lllnstraliotts 
 
 FROM ORIGINAL DESIGNS. 
 
 LONDON: 
 FREDERICK WARNE AND CO. 
 
 BEDFORD STREET, COVENT GARDEN. 
 
 NEW YORK : SCRIBNER. WELFORD AND CO. 
 
 1869.
 
 LONDON : 
 EDWARDS AND CO., CHANDOS STREET, 
 COVENT GARDEN.
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 TN 
 
 (olOl 
 
 V. I 
 
 31 
 
 OQ 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Recollections Hon. Mrs. Norton i 
 
 First Love's Recollections John Clare 3 
 
 The Legend of the Forget-me-Not . . Anonymous 4 
 
 From the German g 
 
 Forget-me-Not W. H. Harrison 10 
 
 The Bride of the Danube . . . Miss Pickersgill 15 
 
 /n the Twilight Deep and Silent .... Lowell 17 
 
 The Forsaken to the False One Anon. 19 
 
 Think on Me John Hamilton 21 
 
 *' Forget-me-Not" 22 
 
 Eve Hood 22 
 
 From the '' Rape of Proserpine' . Barry Cornwall 23 
 
 Sensitive Plant Mrs. Sigourney 24 
 
 Remembrance Shakspeare 25 
 
 432042
 
 iv Contents. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Absence . . . Mrs. Butler {7iee Fanny Kemble) 26 
 
 / Think of Thee Goethe 28 
 
 My Birthday Thomas Moore 29 
 
 A Remembrance Tennyson 31 
 
 Forget-me-Not D. M. Moir 32 
 
 A Bouquet .... Miss Landon, MaryHowitt 34 
 There are Moments in Life that are Never Forgot 
 
 P ercival 34 
 
 Forget Thee 9 Rev. John Moultrie 35 
 
 Remembrance Thomas Hood 37 
 
 Good Night Miss Landon 38 
 
 The Wedding Wake George Darley 39 
 
 Thekla's Song Schiller 41 
 
 May Song Lord Thurlow 43 
 
 Sweet Morn! SterHng 45 
 
 Toil Elizabeth Barrett Browning 46 
 
 Do They Miss Me? C. A. Briggs 47 
 
 The Pansy 49 
 
 ' The Country Child's Lantern Clare 49 
 
 Narcissus and Violet . . .Miss Landon, Shelley 49 
 
 Stanzas for Music Byron 50 
 
 The Friends that are Gone 52 
 
 So7met Shakspeare 53 
 
 Alpine Gentian Coleridge 53
 
 Contents. y 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Song Miss Landon 54 
 
 Common Ragwort 54 
 
 Flora's Garland 55 
 
 Lynaria — Yellow Toadjlax 55 
 
 Foxglove 55 
 
 The Garden "Hickes's Devotions" 56 
 
 Flowers Clare 58 
 
 To a Favourite Polyanthus G. W. 59 
 
 Stanzas to Two Early Violets Anon. 60 
 
 A Thought 0/ the Daisy when in Brazil . Gardner 61 
 
 Love Shut Out of a Flower-Garden Roderigo Cotta 62 
 
 Sweet Peas Keats 64 
 
 On a Faded Violet Shelley 65 
 
 The First Morniiig of Spring .... Sigourney 66 
 
 Sonnet to the Camelia Japonica . . . W. Roscoe 6j 
 
 Spring in New York Bryant 68 
 
 The Violet Anon. 71 
 
 Sonnet J. E. R. 72 
 
 The Knight and Lady Fair . . . Bishop Mant 73 
 
 Daffodils Wordsworth 75 
 
 Love's Bed of State Daniel 76 
 
 A Wee Flower Anderson tj 
 
 The Broken Flower Hemans 79 
 
 A Thought of the Rose Mrs. Hemans 80
 
 vi Contents. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 'Heart' s-Ease Mrs. Sheridan 8i 
 
 fleart' s-Edse Anon. 82 
 
 The Bee and the Lady Flcnoer .... Herrick 83 
 
 Song of the Captive Goethe 85 
 
 The Abnond Tree Miss Landon 89 
 
 Lines on Receiving a Branch of Meier eon Mrs. Tighe 91 
 
 Song 93 
 
 Summer Flowers Mrs. Hemans 94 
 
 The Blind Flower Girl's Song Bulwer 95 
 
 Remembrance T. G. A. 97 
 
 Home Richard Hill 102 
 
 SongoftheForget-me-Not 103 
 
 Swiss Home-Sickness Mrs. Hemans 104 
 
 As It Fell Upon a Day Shakspeare 106 
 
 Philoctetes Wordsworth 108 
 
 The Lotus Tennyson 109 
 
 The Grecian Maidens Remet7iber Sappho . Moore in 
 The Shepherd of King A d7net us . . . . Lowell 112 
 
 Sappho Croly 113 
 
 Cupid and Pysche T. K. Harvey 115 
 
 Cupid Carrying Provisions Croly 117 
 
 The Origin of Fable Keats 119 
 
 Pilgrimage Miss Landon 122 
 
 A Truth Anonymous 123
 
 Contents. vii 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Thoughts on Flowers .... " The Casket " 124 
 
 Light in Darkness W. H. Burleigh 126 
 
 Self-Knowledge Sir John Davies 128 
 
 Floreal Kent, Wordsworth 129 
 
 yeanie Morrison .... Wilham Motherwell 131 
 
 O/a the Airts the Wind can Blaw . . . Burns 135 
 
 May-Morn Song Motherwell 136 
 
 My Aifi Countrie .... Allan Cunningham 138 
 
 Dinna Forget Anon. 139 
 
 The Auld Man Bums 140 
 
 Adieu for Evermore 141 
 
 Forget-me-Not 143 
 
 The Shepherd to the Flowers Raleigh 144 
 
 Sweet Day, so Cool G. Herbert 145 
 
 That Song again T. K.Harvey 146 
 
 Cupid and the Dial Anon. 147 
 
 ** Servant to a Wooden Cradle" Juha W. Howe 148 
 
 Flowers Shelley 150 
 
 Remembrance Julia W. Howe 152
 
 THE FORGET-ME-NOT. 
 
 RECOLLECTIONS. 
 
 O you remember all the sunny places, 
 Where, in bright days long past, we played 
 together ? 
 
 Do you remember all the old home faces 
 That gather'd round the hearth in wintry weather? 
 Do you remember all the happy meetings. 
 In summer evenings, round the open door — 
 Kind looks, kind hearts, kind words and tender greetings. 
 And clasping hands whose pulses beat no more ? 
 Do you remember them ? 
 
 Do you remember all the merry laughter. 
 The voices round the swing in our old garden; 
 The dog that when we ran still follow'd after; 
 The teasing frolic sure of speedy pardon ? 
 3 B
 
 2 The Forget-me-Not. 
 
 We were but children then, young happy creatures. 
 And hardly knew how much we had to lose; 
 But now the dreamlike memory of those features 
 Comes back, and bids my darken'd spirit muse. 
 Do you remember them ? 
 
 Do you remember when we first departed 
 From all the old companions who were round us. 
 How very soon again we grew light-hearted. 
 And talk'd with smiles of all the links which bound us 
 And after, when our footsteps were returning, 
 With unfelt weariness, o'er hill and plain. 
 How our young hearts kept boiling up, and burning 
 To think how soon we'd be at home again ' 
 Do you remember this ? 
 
 Do you remember how the dreams of glory 
 Kept fading from us like a fairy treasure; 
 How we thought less of being famed in story. 
 And more of those to whom our fame gave pleasure ? 
 Do you remember in far countries weeping. 
 When a light breeze, a flower, hath brought to mind 
 Old happy thoughts, which till that hour were sleeping, 
 And made us yearn for those we left behind ? 
 Do \ ou remember this ? 
 
 Do you remember when no sound woke gladly. 
 But desolate echoes through our home were ringing. 
 How for a while we talk'd — then paused full sadly, 
 Because our voices bitter thoughts were bringing ?
 
 Recollections. 3 
 
 Ah me ! those days — those days ! My friend, my 
 
 brother. 
 Sit down and let us talk of all our woe, 
 For we have nothing left but one another, — 
 Vet where they went, old playmate, we shall go ; 
 Let us remember this. 
 
 Hon. Mrs. Norton. 
 
 FIRST LOVE'S RECOLLECTIONS. 
 
 Oh, long be my heart with such memories filled ! 
 Like the vase in which odours have once been distilled 
 You may break, you may ruin the vase, if you will. 
 But the scent of the roses will hang round it still ! 
 
 Moore. 
 
 First love will with the heart remain. 
 
 When its hopes are all gone byj 
 As frail rose-blossoms still retain 
 
 Their fragrance when they die. 
 And joy's first dreams will haunt the mind 
 
 With the shades from which they sprung ; 
 As summer leaves the stems behind 
 
 On which spring's blossoms hung 
 
 John Clare.
 
 THE LEGEND OF THE FORGET-ME-XOT. 
 
 AREWELL ! my true and loyal knight! on 
 
 yonder battle field 
 Many a pearl and gem of price will gleam on 
 helm and shield : 
 But bear thou on thy silver crest this pure and simple 
 
 wreath, 
 A token of thy ladye's love — unchanging to the death. 
 
 They seem, I know, these fragrant fiowers, those fairy 
 
 stars of blue. 
 As maidens' eyes had smiled on them, and given them 
 
 that bright hue ; 
 As onTy fitting but to bind a lady's hair or lute. 
 And not with war or warrior's crest in armed field to 
 
 suit. 
 
 But there's a charm in every leaf, a deep and mystic 
 
 spell ; 
 Then take the wreath, my loyal knight, our Lady shield 
 
 thee well :
 
 The Legend of the Forget-me-Not. 5 
 
 And though still prouder favours deck the gallant 
 
 knights of France, 
 Oh, be the first in every field. La Fleur de Souvenance ! 
 
 How bland, how still this summer eve, sure never gentler 
 hour 
 
 For lay of love, or sigh of lute, to breathe in lady's 
 bower ; 
 
 Then listen with a lover's faith, as spell-bound to the 
 spot, 
 
 To the legend of my token flower, the charmed Forget- 
 me-Not. 
 
 Young Albert led his Ida forth, when the departing sun 
 
 Still linger'd in the golden west, and shone like treasures 
 won 
 
 From some far land of old romance ; some genie's 
 diamond throne, 
 
 A wreck of bright enchanted gems, in triumph over- 
 thrown. 
 
 Love, look towards those radiant clouds, so like to fairy 
 
 bowers : 
 How proudly o'er a sea of gold are raised their ruby 
 
 towers ; 
 And now, as if by magic spell, a bright pavilion seems. 
 With its folds of sapphire light, where the panting sun- 
 
 ray gleams.
 
 6 The Forget-me-Not. ' 
 
 To that bright heaven with smiles she looked ; one gleam _ 
 
 of her blue eyes. 
 And Albert's heart forgot the clouds, and all their radiant 
 
 dyes. 
 All, all, but that young smiling one, whose beauty well 
 
 might seem 
 A fairy form of loveliness imagined in a dream. 
 
 She took a chaplet from her brow, which, gleaming soft 
 
 and fair. 
 Like orient veil of amber light streamed down her silken 
 
 hair. 
 Shedding fragrance and emitting brightness from its 
 
 glittering rings. 
 As if hallow'd by Love's breath, and the glancing of his 
 
 wings. 
 
 "These maiden roses, love, appear like pearls kissed 
 
 by the sun 
 With last rich gleam of crimson ere his western throne 
 
 be won ; 
 But should there not be some bright flower to deck our 
 
 bridal wreath. 
 Whose hue might speak of constancy, unchanging to the 
 
 death ?" 
 
 " My Ida ! from a thousand wreaths, thy own sweet 
 
 fancy chose. 
 For pure unfading loveliness, this garland of the Rose:
 
 The Legend of the Forget-vie-Not. 7 
 
 And what can speak of truer faith, my own beloved one. 
 Than the flower whose fragrance lasts even when its life 
 is gone ? ' 
 
 " Look to yon lone enchanted isle, which 'mid the 
 
 silvery foam 
 Of the blue water seems to float, the wild swan's elfin 
 
 home; 
 A very cloud of azure flowers in rich profusion bloom ; 
 Winds of the lake ! your passing sighs breathe of their 
 rich perfume. 
 
 *' In nameless beauty all unmarked, in solitude they 
 
 smile. 
 As if they bloomed but for the stars, or birds of that 
 
 lone isle : 
 For never yet hath mortal foot touched that enchanted 
 
 shore. 
 Long hallowed by the wildly imagined tales of yore. 
 
 " Full well I love those distant flowers, whose pure and 
 
 tender blue 
 Seems fitting emblem of a faith, unchanging as their 
 
 hue; 
 And wouldst thou venture for my love as thou wouldst 
 
 for renown. 
 To win for me those azure flowers, to deck my bridal 
 
 crown ?"
 
 8 The Forget-me-Kot. 
 
 One parting kiss of his fair bride, and swiftly far away. 
 Like the wild swan whose home he sought, young Albert 
 
 met the spray 
 Of rising waves, which foamed in wrath, as if some 
 
 spirit's hand 
 Awoke the genii of the lake to guard their mystic land. 
 
 The flowers were won, but devious his course lay back 
 
 again ; 
 To stem the waters in their tow'ring rage he strove in 
 
 vain: 
 Fondly he glanced to the yet distant shore, where in 
 
 despair 
 His Ida stood with outstretched arms, 'mid shrieks and 
 
 tears and pray'r. 
 
 Darker and fiercer gathered on the tempest in its wrath. 
 The eddying waves with vengeful ire beset the fatal path; 
 With the wild energy of death he well-nigh reached the 
 
 spot. 
 The azure flowers fell at her feet — " Ida, Forget me 
 
 not!" 
 The words yet borne upon his lips, the prize seem'd 
 
 almost won. 
 When 'mid the rush of angry waves he sank — for ever 
 
 gone ! 
 
 Within a proud cathedral aisle was raised a costly tomb. 
 Whose pure white marble like ethereal light amid the 
 gloom
 
 The Legend of the Forget-me-Not. 9 
 
 Shone — and no other trace it bore of lineage or of lot 
 But I la's name, with star-like flowers ensculp'd Forget 
 me not! 
 
 There Ida slept, the desolate, the last of all her name. 
 Parted from him who perished for her love 'mid dawn 
 
 of fame ; 
 But when shall their fond legend die ! or when shall be 
 
 forgot 
 The flower that won its name in death. Love's theme — • 
 
 Forget-me-Not ? 
 
 Anonymous. 
 
 FROM THE GERMAN. 
 
 Shepherdess fair and dear ! 
 
 How sweetly they buried thee here ; 
 
 All the zephyrs mourned and sighed 
 
 And the blue-bells tolled when their lov'd one died. 
 
 Torches the glow-worm had borne by thy side. 
 
 If the stars had not beamed in their grief and pride; 
 
 Garments of sadness the sad night wore. 
 
 And the dark shadows bent them thy coffin o'er. 
 
 And the morning dews shall weep long and fast. 
 
 And the sun o'er thy grave shall his blessing cast. 
 
 Shepherdess fair and dear. 
 
 How sweetly they buried thee here !
 
 FORGET ME NOT. 
 
 HE star that shines so pure and bright. 
 Like a far-off' place of bliss. 
 And tells the broken-hearted 
 
 There are brighter worlds than this; 
 The moon that courses through the sky. 
 
 Like man's uncertain doom. 
 Now shining bright with borrowed light. 
 
 Now wrapp'd in deepest gloom, — 
 Or -y^hen eclips'd, a dreary blank, 
 
 A fearful emblem given 
 Of the heart shut out by a sir.ful world 
 
 From the blessed light of hearen ; — 
 The flower that freely casts its wealth 
 
 Of perfume on the gale ; 
 The breeze that mourns the summer's close. 
 
 With melancholy wail; 
 The stream that cleaves the mountain's side. 
 
 Or gurgles from the grot, — 
 All speak in their Creator's name. 
 
 And say " Forget me not !"
 
 Forget me Not. 1 1 
 
 When man's vain heart is swollen with pride. 
 
 And his haughty lip is curl'd. 
 And from the scorner's seat he smiles 
 
 Contempt upon the world ; 
 Where glitter crowns and coronets. 
 
 Like stars that gem the skies. 
 And Flattery's incense rises thick 
 
 To blind a monarch's eyes ; 
 Where the courtier's tongue with facile lie 
 
 A royal ear beguiles; 
 Where suitors live on promises. 
 
 And sycophants on smiles ; 
 Where each as in a theatre 
 
 Is made to play his part. 
 Where the diadem hides a troubled brow, 
 
 And the star an aching heart ; 
 There, even 'mid pomp and power. 
 
 Is oft a voice that calls 
 "Forget me not," in thunder. 
 
 Throughout the palace walls. 
 
 Or in the house of banqueting, 
 
 Where the madd'ning bowl is flush. 
 And the shameless ribald boast of deeds 
 
 For which the cheek should blush ; 
 Where from the oft-drain'd goblet's brim 
 
 The eye of mirth is lit; 
 Where the cold conceits of a trifler's brain 
 
 Pass for the coin of wit ;
 
 The Forgct-me-Not. 
 
 Where Flattery sues to woman's ear. 
 
 And tells his tile again. 
 And Beauty smiles upon things so mean. 
 
 We blush to call them men ; 
 Where 'tis sad to hear the flippant tongue 
 
 Apply its hackneyed arts ; — 
 Oh ! their heads would be the hollowest things. 
 
 But for their hollower hearts ! 
 But, hist ! the reveller's shout is still'd. 
 
 The song, the jest forgot j 
 The hair is snapp'd, the sword descends. 
 
 With a dread " Forget me not !" 
 
 Go ! hie thee to the rank churchyard 
 
 Where flits the shadowy ghost. 
 And see how little pride has left 
 
 Whereon to raise a boast, 
 liee Beauty claiming sisterhood 
 
 With the noisome reptile worm — 
 Oh, where are all the graces fled 
 
 That once array'd her form ! 
 Fond hope no more on her smile will feed. 
 
 Nor wither at her frown : 
 Her head will rest more quiet now 
 
 Than when it slept on down. 
 With cloven crest and bloody shroud 
 
 The once proud warrior lies; 
 And the patriot's heart hath not a throb 
 
 To give to a nation's cries.
 
 Forget me Not. J. 3 
 
 A solemn voice will greet thine ear 
 
 As thou lingerest round the spot. 
 And cry from out the sepulchre, 
 
 "Frail man, forget me not !" 
 
 " Forget me not !" the thunder roars. 
 
 As it bursts its sulphury cloud ; 
 'Tis murmur'd by the distant hills 
 
 In echoes long and loud ; 
 'Tis written by the Almighty's hand 
 
 In characters of flame, 
 When the lightnings gleam with vivid flash, 
 
 And His wrath and power proclaim. 
 'Tis murmur'd when the white wave falls 
 
 Upon the wreck-strewn shore. 
 As a hoary warrior bows his crest 
 
 When his day of work is o'er. 
 Go ! speed thee forth when the beamy sun 
 
 O'erthrows the reign of night. 
 And strips the scene of its misty robe. 
 
 And arrays it in diamonds bright. 
 Oh ! as thou drinkest health and joy 
 
 In the fresh and balmy air, 
 " Forget me not," in a still small voice 
 
 Will surely greet thee there. 
 
 Oh ! who that sees the vermeil cheek 
 
 Grow day by day more pale, 
 And Beauty's form to shrink before 
 
 The summer's gentlest gale.
 
 14 Tlic Forget-me-Not. 
 
 But thinks of Him, the mighty One, 
 
 By whom the blow is given, 
 As if the fairest flowers of earth 
 Were early pluck'd for heaven. 
 Oh ! yes, on every side we see 
 
 The impress of His hand ; 
 The air we breathe is full of Him, 
 
 And the earth on which we stand 
 Yet heedless man regards it not. 
 
 But life's uncertain day 
 In idle hopes and vain regrets 
 
 Thus madly wastes away. 
 But in his own appointed time 
 
 He will not be forgot : 
 Oh ! in that hour of fearful strife, 
 
 Great God, forget me not ! 
 
 W. H. Harrison.
 
 THE BRIDE OF THE DANUBE. 
 
 EE how yon glittering wave in sportive play. 
 Washes the bank, and steals the flowers away. 
 And must they thus in bloom and beauty die, 
 Without the passing tribute of a sigh ? 
 
 " No, Bertha, those young flow' rets there 
 
 Shall form a braid for thy sunny hair; 
 
 I yet will save them, if but one 
 
 Soft smile reward me when 'tis done." 
 
 He said, and plung'd into the stream — 
 
 His only light was the moon's pale beam. 
 
 " Stay ! stay !" She cried — but he had caught 
 
 The drooping flow'rs, and breathless sought 
 
 To place the treasures at the feet 
 
 Of her from whom e'en death were sweet. 
 
 With outstretch'd arms upon the shore she stood. 
 
 With tearful eye she gaz"d upon the flood, 
 
 Whose swelling tide now seem'd as if 'twould sever 
 
 Her faithful lover from her arms for ever. 
 
 Still through the surge he panting strove to gain 
 
 The welcome strand — but, ah ! he strove in vain !
 
 1 6 The Forget-me-Not. 
 
 Yet once the false stream bore him to the spot 
 Where stood his bride in muteness of despair; 
 And scarcely had he said, " Forget me not !" 
 And flung the dearly ransom'd flow'rets there. 
 When the dark wave clos'd o'er him, and no more. 
 Was seen young Rodolph on the Danube's shore. 
 
 Aghast she stood ; she saw the tranquil stream 
 Pass o'er him — could it be a fleeting dream ? 
 Ah, no ! the last fond words, " Forget me not !" 
 Told it was all a sad reality. 
 With frantic grasp the dripping flow'rs she prest, 
 Too dearly purchas'd, to her aching breast. 
 
 Alas ! her tears, her sorrows now were vain. 
 
 For him she lov'd she ne'er shall see again ! 
 
 Is this then a bridal, where, sad in her bow'r. 
 
 The maid weeps alone at the nuptial hour ; 
 
 Where hush'd is the harp, and silent the lute — 
 
 Ah ! why should their thrilling strains be mute? 
 
 And where is young Rodolph ? where stays the bride- 
 
 groom 
 
 Go, ask the dark waters, for there is his tomb. 
 
 Often at eve when maidens rove 
 
 Beside the Danube's wave, 
 
 They tell the tale of hapless love. 
 
 And show young Rodolph's grave ; 
 
 And cull the flowers from that sweet spot. 
 
 Still calling them " Forget-me-Not." 
 
 Miss Pickersgill.
 
 IN THE TWILIGHT DEEP AND SILENT. 
 
 N the twilight deep and silent 
 Comes thy spirit unto mine ; 
 When the starlight and the moonlight 
 Over cliff and woodland shine, 
 And the quiver of the river 
 Seems a thrill of joy benign. 
 
 Then I rise and go in fancy 
 
 To the headland by the sea; 
 When the evening star throbs setting 
 
 Through the dusky cedar tree. 
 And, from under, low-voiced thunder 
 
 From the surf swells fitfully. 
 
 Then within my soul I feel thee 
 Like a dream of bygone years : 
 
 Visions of my childhood murmur 
 Their old madness in my ears. 
 
 Till the pleasance of thy presence 
 Crowds my heart with blissful tears.
 
 1 8 The Forget-me-Not. 
 
 All the wondrous dreams of boyhood. 
 All youth's fiery thirst of praise. 
 
 All the surer hopes of manhood. 
 Blossoming in sadder days, — 
 
 Joys that bound me, griefs that crowned me. 
 With a better wreath than bays, — 
 
 All the longings after freedom. 
 The vague love of human-kind — 
 
 Wandering far and near at random. 
 Like a dead leaf on the wind. 
 
 Rousing only in the lonely 
 
 Twilight of an aimless mind — 
 
 All of these, oh, best-beloved ! 
 
 Happiest present dreams and past. 
 In thy love find safe fulfilment 
 
 Ripened into truth at last; 
 Faith and beauty, hope and duty. 
 
 To one centre gather fast. 
 
 How my spirit, like an ocean. 
 At the breath of thine awakes. 
 
 Leaps its shores in mad exulting. 
 And in foamy music breaks ; 
 
 Then, down-sinking, lieth shrinking 
 From the tumult that it makes. 
 
 Lowell.
 
 THE FORSAKEN TO THE FALSE ONE. 
 
 DARE thee to forget me ! go, wander where 
 
 thou wilt ! 
 Thy hand upon the vessel's helm, or on the 
 sabre's hilt. 
 Away ! thou'rt free — o'er land and sea, go rush to danger's 
 
 brink : 
 But oh, thou can'st not fiy from thought — thy curse shall 
 be to think. 
 
 Remember me! remember all my long-enduring love. 
 Which linked itself to perfidy — the vulture and the dove: 
 Remember in thy utmost need I never once did shrink. 
 But clung to thee confidingly — thy curse shall be to think. 
 
 Then go ! that thought will render thee a dastard in the 
 
 fight. 
 That thought when thou art tempest-toss'd will fill thee 
 
 with affright ; 
 In some vile dungeon may'stthou lie, and, counting each 
 
 cold link. 
 That binds thee to captivity, — thy curse shall be to think. 
 c 2
 
 2 Tlie Forget-me-Xot. 
 
 Go ! seek the merry banquet-hall where younger maidens 
 
 bloom. 
 The thought of me shall make thee there endure a 
 
 deeper gloom ; 
 That thought will turn the festive cup to poison while 
 
 you drink. 
 And w^hile false smiles are on thy cheek — thy curse shall 
 
 be to think. 
 
 Forget me ! false one ! '^ope it not, — when minstrels 
 
 touch the string. 
 The memory of other aays will gall thee while they 
 
 sing; 
 The air I used to love will make thy coward conscience 
 
 shrink. 
 Ay ! every note will have its sting — thy curse shall be 
 
 to think. 
 
 Anon.
 
 The For^et-me-Not. 2 r 
 
 THINK ON ME. 
 
 O where the water glideth gently ever — 
 Glideth through meadows that the greenest 
 be. 
 
 Go, listen to our own beloved river. 
 
 And think on me. 
 
 Wander in forests where the small flower layeth 
 Her fancy gem beneath the giant tree ; 
 List to the dim brook, pining as it playeth. 
 And think on me. 
 
 And when the sky is silver pale at even. 
 And the wind grieveth in the lonely tree: 
 Walk out beneath the solitary heaven, 
 
 And think on me. 
 
 And when the moon riseth as she were dreaming, 
 And treadeth with white feet the lulled sea. 
 Go, silent as a star beneath her beaming. 
 And think on me. 
 
 John Hamilton.
 
 The Forget-me-Not. 
 
 " FORGET-ME-NOT." 
 
 There is a little modest flower, 
 
 To friendship ever dear, 
 'Tis nourished in her humble bower. 
 
 And watered by her tear. 
 
 If hearts 'by fond affection tried. 
 Should chance to slip away. 
 
 This little flower will gently chide 
 The heart that thus would stray. 
 
 All other flowers when once they fade 
 
 Are left alone to die. 
 But this, e'en when it is decayed. 
 
 Will live in memory's sigh. 
 
 EVE. 
 
 Where are the blooms of summer? — In the West, 
 
 Blushing their last to the last sunny hours. 
 
 When the mild eve by sudden night is prest. 
 
 Like tearful Proserpine, snatch'd from her flowers 
 
 To a most gloomy breast. 
 
 Hood.
 
 The Forget-me-Not. 23 
 
 FROM THE "RAPE OF PROSERPINE." 
 
 Hf.re, this rose 
 (This one half-blown) shall be my Maia's portion. 
 For that like it her blush is beautiful; 
 And this deep violet, almost as blue 
 As Pallas' eye, or thine Lycinnia, 
 I'll give to thee ; for like thyself it wears 
 Its sweetness, ne'er obtruding. For this lily. 
 Where can it hang but at Cyane's breast ? 
 And yet 'twill wither on so white a bed. 
 If flowers have sense for envy : — It shall lie 
 Amongst thy raven tresses, Cytheris, 
 Like one star on the bosom of the night. 
 The cowslip, and the yellow primrose, — they 
 Are gone, my sad Leontia, to their graves. 
 And April hath wept o'er them, and the voice 
 Of March hath sung, even before their deaths. 
 The dirge of those young children of the year. 
 But here is heart's-ease for your woes. And now. 
 The honey-suckle flower I give to thee. 
 And love it for my sake, my own Cyane: 
 It hangs upon the stem it loves, as thou 
 Hast clung to me, thro' every joy and sorrow; 
 It flourishes with its guardian's growth, as thou dost; 
 And if the woodman's axe should drop the tree. 
 The woodbine too must perish. 
 
 Barry Cornwall.
 
 SENSITIVE PLANT 
 
 HERE is a plant that in its cell 
 All trembling seems to stand. 
 And ends its stalk and folds its leaves 
 From each approaching hand 
 
 And thus there is a conscious nerve 
 Within the human breast. 
 
 That from the rash and careless hand 
 Shrinks, and retires distrest. 
 
 The pressure rude, the touch severe. 
 Will raise within the mind 
 
 A nameless thrill, a secret tear, 
 A torture undefined. 
 
 O you who are by nature form'd 
 Each thought refined to know. 
 
 Repress the word — the glance — that wakes 
 That trembling nerve to wee.
 
 Se?isiliL'e Plant. ^^ 
 
 And be it still your joy to raise 
 
 The trembler from the shade. 
 To bind the broken, and to heal 
 
 The wound you never made. 
 
 Whene'er you see the feeling mind. 
 
 Oh let this care begin ! 
 And though the cell be e'er so low. 
 
 Respect the guest within ! 
 
 Mrs. Sigourney. 
 
 REMEMBRANXE. 
 
 When to the sessions of sweet silent thought 
 
 I summon up remembrance of things past, 
 I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought. 
 
 And with old woes new wail my dear time's waste. 
 Then can I drown an eye unused to flow. 
 
 For precious friends hid in death's dateless night. 
 And weep afresh love's long-since cancelled woe. 
 
 And moan the expense of many a vanished sight. 
 Then can I grieve at grievances forgone. 
 
 And heavily from woe to woe tell o'er 
 The sad account of fore-bemoaned moan. 
 
 Which I now pay as if not paid before ! 
 — But if the while I think on thee, dear friend. 
 All losses are restored, and sorrows end. 
 
 Shakspeare.
 
 ABSENXE. 
 
 HAT shall I do with all the days and hours 
 That must be counted ere I see thy face ? 
 How shall I charm the interval that lowrs 
 Between this time and that sweet time of grace 
 
 Shall I in slumber steep each weary sense. 
 Weary with, longing ? Shall I flee away 
 
 Into past days, and with some fond pretence 
 Cheat myself to forget the present day ? 
 
 Shall love for thee lay on my soul the sin 
 Of casting from me God's great gift of time ? 
 
 Shall I, these mists of memory lock'd within. 
 Leave and forget life's purposes sublime ! 
 
 Oh ! how, or by what means, may I contrive 
 
 To bring the hour that brings thee back more near ? 
 
 How may I teach my drooping hope to live 
 Until that blessed time, and thou art here?
 
 Absence. 27 
 
 I'll tell thee : for thy sake I will lay hold 
 Of all good aims, and consecrate to thee. 
 
 In worthy deeds, each moment that is told. 
 While thou, beloved one ! art far from me. 
 
 For thee, I will arouse my thoughts to try 
 
 All heavenward flights, all high and holy strains ; 
 
 For thy dear sake I will walk patiently 
 
 Thro' these long hours, nor call their minutes pains. 
 
 I will this dreary blank of absence make 
 A noble task time, and will therein strive 
 
 To follow excellence, and to o'ertake 
 
 More good than I have won, since yet I live. 
 
 So may this doomed time build up in me 
 
 A thousand graces which shall thus be thine; 
 So may my love and longing hallowed be. 
 And thy dear thought an influence divine. 
 
 Mrs. Butler 
 {7iee Fanny Kemble).
 
 28 The Fors^et-me-Not, 
 
 THINK OF THEE. 
 
 THINK of thee whene'er the sun is glowing 
 
 Upon the lake ; 
 Of thee when in the crystal fountain flowing 
 
 The moonbeams shake. 
 
 I see thee when the wanton wind is busy 
 
 And dust-clouds rise ; 
 In the deep night, when o'er the bridge so dizzy 
 
 The wanderer hies. 
 
 I hear thee when the waves, with hollow roaring, 
 
 Gush forth their fill; 
 Often along the heath 1 go exploring 
 
 When all is still. 
 
 I am with thee, though far thou art and darkling. 
 
 Yet thou art near ; 
 The sun goes down — the stars will soon be sparkling j 
 
 Oh, wert thou here ! 
 
 GOTHE.
 
 MY BIRTHDAY. 
 
 Y birthday" — what a different sound 
 
 That word had in my youthful years ! 
 And how, each time the day comes round. 
 Less and less white the mark appears. 
 When first our scanty years are told. 
 It seems like pastime to grow old ; 
 And, as youth counts the shining links 
 
 That time around him binds so fast. 
 Pleased with the task, he little thinks 
 
 How hard that chain will press at last. 
 Vain was the man, and false as vain. 
 
 Who said — " Were he ordain'd to run 
 His long career of life again. 
 
 He would do all that he had done." 
 Ah, 'tis not thus the voice that dwells 
 
 In sober birthdays, speaks to me; 
 Far otherwise — of time it tells, 
 
 Lavish'd unwisely — carelessly ; 
 Of counsel mock'd, of talents, made 
 
 Haply for high and pure designs. 
 But oft, like Israel's incense, laid 
 
 Uf>on unholy, earthly shrines ;
 
 30 The Forget-meNot. 
 
 Of nursing many a wrong desire. 
 
 Of wandering after love too far. 
 And taking every meteor fire 
 
 That cross'd my pathway for his star ! 
 All this it tells, and, could I trace 
 
 The imperfect picture o'er again. 
 With power to add, re-touch, efface 
 
 The lights and shades, the joy and pain, 
 How little of the past would stay ! 
 How quickly all should melt away : 
 All but that freedom of the mind. 
 
 Which hath been more than wealth to mej 
 Those friendships, in my boyhood twined. 
 
 And kept till now unchangingly ; 
 And that dear home, that saving ark. 
 
 Where love's true light at last I've found, 
 Cheering within, when all grows dark. 
 
 And comfortless, and stormy, round ! 
 
 Thomas Moore.
 
 The Foroet-me-Not. 31 
 
 A REMEMBRANCE. 
 
 EMEMEER you the clear moonlight 
 That whitened all the eastern ridge. 
 When o'er the water dancing white 
 I stepp'd upon the old mill bridge ? 
 I heard you whisper from above, 
 A lute-toned whisper, I am here ! 
 1 murmur'd, speak again, my love. 
 The stream is loud : I cannot hear ! 
 
 I heard, as I have seem'd to hear 
 When all the under air was still. 
 The low voice of the glad new year 
 Call to the freshly-flower'd hill. 
 I heard, as I have often heard. 
 The nightingale in leafy woods 
 Call to its mate when nothing stirr'd 
 To left or right, but falling floods I 
 
 Tennyson.
 
 FORGET ME NOT. 
 
 UMMER was on the hills when last we parted. 
 Now the bright moon is shining 
 
 O'er the gray mountains and the stilly sea. 
 As, by the streamlet's willowy bend reclining, 
 I pause, remembering thee. 
 
 Yes ! as we roam'd, the sylvan earth seem'd glowing 
 With many a beauty, unremark'd before j 
 
 The soul was like a deep urn overflowing 
 With thoughts, a treasured store ; 
 
 The very flowers seemed born but to exhale. 
 
 As breathed the west, their fragrance to the gale. • 
 
 Methinks, even yet I feel thy timid fingers 
 
 With their bland pressure thrilling bliss to mine; 
 
 Methinks, yet on my cheek thy breathing lingers 
 As — fondly leant to thine, 
 
 I told, how life all pleasureless would be. 
 
 Green palm-tree of life's desert ! wanting thee.
 
 Forget me Not. ^^ 
 
 Not yet, not yet had disappointment shrouded 
 
 Youth's summer calm with storms of wintry strife; 
 
 The star of hope shone o'er our path unclouded, 
 And Fancy coloured life 
 
 "With those elysian rainbow hues, which Truth 
 
 Melts with his rod, when disenchanting youth. 
 
 Yet should it cheer me, that nor Woe hath shattered 
 The ties that link our hearts, nor Hate nor Wrath; 
 
 And soon the day may dawn, when shall be scattered 
 All shadows from our path. 
 
 For ah ! with others wealth and mirth would be 
 
 Less sweet, by far, than sorrow shared with thee ! 
 
 Yes ! vainly, foolishly the vul^ear reckon. 
 That happiness resides in outward shows : 
 
 Contentment from the lowliest cot may beckon 
 True Love to sweet repose : 
 
 For genuine bliss can ne'er be far apart. 
 
 When soul meets soul, and heart respords to heart. 
 
 D. M. MoiR.
 
 34 The Forget-me-Not. 
 
 A BOUQUET. 
 
 The tulip 
 Whose passionate leaves with their ruby glow- 
 Hide the breast that is burning and black below. 
 
 Miss Landon. 
 
 The almond, though its branch is sere, 
 With myriad blossoms beautiful. 
 As pink as is the shell's inside. 
 
 Mary Howitt. 
 
 THERE ARE MOMENTS IN LIFE THAT ARE 
 NEVER FORGOT. 
 
 There are moments in life that are never forgot. 
 Which brighten and brighten as time steals away; 
 
 They give a new charm to the happiest lot. 
 
 And they shine on the gloom of the loneliest day. 
 
 These moments are hallow'd by smiles, and by tears — 
 
 The first look of love, and the last parting given j 
 As the sun in the dawn of his glory appears. 
 
 And the cloud weeps and glows with the rainbow in 
 heaven. 
 
 Percival.
 
 FORGET THEE? 
 
 ORGET thee?" — If to dream by night, and 
 muse on thee by day ; 
 If all the worship, deep and wild, a poet's 
 heart can pay. 
 If prayers in absence, breathed for thee to Heaven's pro- 
 tecting power. 
 If winged thoughts that flit to thee a thousand in an 
 
 hour. 
 If busy Fancy, blending thee with all my future lot, — 
 If this thou call'st " forgetting," thou indeed shalt be 
 forgot ! 
 
 " Forget thee ?" — Bid the forest birds forget their sweetest 
 tune ! 
 
 " Forget thee ?" — Bid the sea forget to swell beneath the 
 moon ; 
 
 Bid the thirsty flowers forget to drink the eve's refreshing 
 dew; 
 
 Thyself forget thine "own dear land," and its "moun- 
 tains wild and blue ;" 
 
 D 2
 
 ^6 The Forget-me-Not. 
 
 Forget each old familiar face, each long-remember'd spot : 
 When these things are forgot by thee, then thou shalt be 
 forgot ! 
 
 Keep, if thou wilt, thy maiden peace, still calm and 
 
 fancy-free ; 
 For God forbid thy gladsome heart should grow les3 
 
 glad for me ! 
 Yet, while that heart is still unwon, oh, bid not mine to 
 
 rove. 
 But let it keep its humble faith, and uncomplaining love; 
 If these, preserved for patient years, at last avail me not. 
 Forget me then ; — but ne'er believe that thou canst be 
 
 forgot ! 
 
 Rev. John Moultrie.
 
 The Forget-me-Not. 37 
 
 REMEMBRANCE. 
 
 REMEMBER, I remember 
 The house where I was born, 
 The little window where the sun 
 
 Came peeping in at morn; 
 
 He never came a wink too soon 
 
 Nor brought too long a day j 
 
 But now I often wish the night 
 
 Had borne my breath away ! 
 
 I remembei, I remember 
 
 The roses, red and white. 
 
 The violets, and the lily cups — 
 
 Those flowers made of light ; 
 
 The lilacs, where the robins built. 
 
 And where my brother set 
 
 The laburnum on his birth-day, — 
 
 The tree is living yet ! 
 
 I remember, I remember 
 
 The fir trees dark and high ; 
 
 I used to think their slender spires 
 
 Were close against the sky ! 
 
 It was a childish ignorance. 
 
 But now 'tis little joy 
 
 To know I'm further off from heaven. 
 
 Than when I was a boy ! 
 
 Thomas Hood. 
 
 ^1 
 
 432042
 
 38 The Forgei-me-Not. 
 
 GOOD NIGHT. 
 
 OOD night ' — what a sudden shadow- 
 Has fallen upon the air, 
 I look not around the chamber, 
 1 know he is not there. 
 Sweetness has left the music. 
 And gladness left the light. 
 My cheek has lost its colour, — 
 How could he say good night ! 
 And why should he take with him 
 The happiness he brought ? 
 Alas ! such fleeting pleasure 
 Is all too dearly bought. 
 If thus my heart stop beating. 
 My spirits lose their tone. 
 And a gloom like night surrounds me. 
 The moment he is gone. 
 Like the fa^se fruit of the lotos. 
 Love alters every taste. 
 We loathe the life we are leading. 
 The spot where we are placed ; 
 We live upon to-morrow. 
 Or we dream the past again. 
 But what avails that knowledge. 
 It ever comes in vain. 
 
 Miss La N DON.
 
 THE WEDDING WAKE. 
 
 E'LL carry her o'er the churchyard green, 
 Down by the willow trees ; 
 We'll bury her by herself between 
 The sister cypresses. 
 
 Flowers of the sweetest, saddest hue. 
 
 Shall deck her lowly bed, 
 Rosemary at her feet we'll strew, 
 
 And violets at her head. 
 
 The pale rose, the dim azure bell. 
 
 And that lamenting flower. 
 With ai ! ai ! its eternal knell. 
 
 Shall overbloom her bower, — 
 
 Her cypress bower; whose shade beneath 
 
 Passionless she shall lie ; — 
 To rest so calm, so sweet in death, 
 
 'Twere no great ill to die !
 
 40 The Forget-me-Not. 
 
 Ye four fair maids, the fairest ye. 
 Be ye the flower-strewers ! 
 
 Ye four bright youths the bearers be. 
 Ye were her fondest wooers ! 
 
 To church ! to church ! ungallant youth. 
 
 Carry your willing bride ! 
 So pale he looks ! 'twere well, in sooth. 
 
 He should lie by her side. 
 
 The bed is laid, the toll is done. 
 
 The ready priest doth stand ; 
 Come, let the flowers be strewn, be strewn. 
 
 Strike up the bridal band. 
 
 George Darley.
 
 
 
 THEKLA'S SONG. 
 
 [This song is said to have been composed by Schiller in 
 answer to the inquiries of his friends respecting the fate of 
 Thekla, whose beautiful character is withdrawn from the tragedy 
 of " Wallenstein's Death," after her resolution to visit the grave 
 of her lover is made known.] 
 
 SK'ST thou my home? — my pathway wouldst 
 thou know. 
 When from thine eye my floating shadow 
 pass'd ? 
 Was not my work fulfill'd, and closed below ? 
 Had I not lived and loved ? — my lot was cast. 
 
 Wilt thou ask where the nightingale is gone. 
 
 That, melting into song her soul away. 
 Gave the spring breeze what witch'd thee in its tone ? — 
 
 But while she loved, she lived in that sad lay. 
 
 Think'st thou my heart its lost one hath not found ? 
 
 Yes ! we are one ; oh ! trust me, we have met, — 
 Where nought again may part what Love hath bound. 
 
 Where falls no tear, and whispers no regret.
 
 42 The Forget-me-Noi. 
 
 There shalt thou find us — there with us be bless'd. 
 If, as our love, thy love is pure and true ; 
 
 There dwells my father,* sinless and at rest. 
 
 Where the fierce murderer may no more pursue. 
 
 And well he feels, no error of the dust 
 
 Drew to the stars of heaven his upward kenj 
 
 There it is with us, e'en as is our trust. 
 He that believes, is near the Holy then. 
 
 There shall each feeling, beautiful and high. 
 Keep the sweet promise of its earthly day — 
 
 Oh ! fear thou not to dream with waking eye. 
 There lies deep meaning oft in childish play. 
 
 * Wallenstein.
 
 MAY SONG. 
 
 AY, queen of blossoms. 
 
 And fulfilling flowers. 
 With what pretty music 
 Shall we charm the hours ? 
 Wilt thou have pipe and reed. 
 Blown in the open mead ? 
 Or to the lute give heed, 
 In the green bowers ? 
 
 Thou hast no need of us. 
 
 Or pipe or wire. 
 That hast the golden bee 
 
 Ripen'd with fire; 
 And many thousand more 
 Songsters, that thee adore. 
 Filling earth's grassy floor 
 
 With new desire. 
 
 Thou hast thy mighty herds. 
 Tame and free livers,
 
 44 Tlie Forge l-me- Not. 
 
 Doubt not, thy music too 
 
 In the deep rivers. 
 And the whole plumy flight. 
 Warbling the day and night, — 
 Up at the gates of light. 
 
 See, the lark quivers ! 
 
 When with the jacinth 
 
 Coy foumains are tress'd. 
 And for the mournful bird. 
 
 Green woods are dress'd 
 That did for Tereus pine. 
 Then shall our songs be thine. 
 To whom our hearts incline, — 
 
 May, be thou bless'd ! 
 
 Lord Thurlow,
 
 SWEET MORN ! 
 
 IWEET morn! from endless cups of gold 
 Thou liftest reverently on high 
 More incense fine than earth caii hold. 
 To fill the sky. 
 
 One interfusion wide of love. 
 
 Thine airs and odours moist ascend. 
 
 And 'mid the azure depths above 
 With light they blend. 
 
 And from the mountain ridges beam 
 Above their quiet steeps of gray ; 
 
 The eastern clouds with glory stream 
 And vital day. 
 
 A joy from hidden paradise 
 
 Is rippling down the shiny brooks 
 
 With beauty, like the gleams of eyes 
 In tenderest looks. 
 
 * * * * *
 
 46 Tlie For get -me- Not. 
 
 In man, O morn ! a loftier good 
 
 With conscious blessing fills the soul, 
 
 A life, by reason understood. 
 Which metes the whole. 
 
 With healthful pulse and tranquil fire, 
 Which plays at ease in every limb. 
 
 His thoughts unchecked to heaven aspire — 
 Revealed in him. 
 
 Sterling. 
 
 TOIL. 
 
 What are v\'e set on earth for ? Say to toil ! 
 
 Nor seek to leave thy tending of the vmes 
 
 For all the heat o' the day, till it declines 
 And Death's wild curfew shall from work assoil. 
 God did anoint thee with His odorous oil 
 
 To wrestle, not to reign ; and He assigns 
 
 All thy tears over like pure crystallines. 
 For younger fellow-workers of the soil 
 
 To wear for amulets. So others shall 
 Take patience, labour, to their heart and hand. 
 
 From thy heart and thy hand and thy brave cheer ; 
 
 And God's grace fructify to thee through all. 
 The least flower with a brimming cup may stand 
 
 And share its dew-drop with another near. 
 
 Elizabeth Barrett Browning.
 
 DO THEY MISS ME? 
 
 O they miss me at home, do they miss me ? 
 'Twould be an assurance most dear. 
 To know that this moment some loved one 
 Was saymg, " Oh, were she but here '." 
 To know that the group at the fireside 
 
 Were thinking of me as I roam, — 
 Oh yes, 'twould be joy beyond measure. 
 To knoiv that they missed me at home ! 
 
 When twilight approaches — the season 
 
 That ever was sacred to song — 
 Does some one repeat my name over. 
 
 And sigh that I tarry so long ? 
 And is there a chord in the music 
 
 That's missed when my voice is away ? 
 And a chord in each heart that awaketh 
 
 Regret at my wearisome stay ? 
 
 Do they place me a chair near the table 
 When evening's home pleasures are nigh.
 
 48 The Forget-me-Not. 
 
 And candles are lit in the parlour. 
 And stars in the calm azure sky ? 
 
 And when the good-nights are repeated. 
 Does each the dear memory keep. 
 
 And think of the absent, and waft me 
 
 A whispered " good-night " ere they sleep ? 
 
 Do they miss me at home, do they miss me. 
 
 At morning, at noon, and at night ? — 
 And lingers one gloomy shade round them 
 
 That only my presence can light ? — 
 Are joys less invitingly welcomed. 
 
 And pleasures less dear than before. 
 Because one is missed from the circle — 
 
 Because / am with them no more? 
 
 Oh yes — they do miss me — kind voices 
 
 Are calling me back as I roam. 
 And eyes have grown weary with weeping. 
 
 And watch but to welcome me home ! 
 Sweet friends, ye shall wait me no longer. 
 
 No longer I'll tarry behind — 
 For how can I tarry while followed 
 
 By watchings and pleadings so kind ? 
 
 C. A. Briggs.
 
 The Forgei-me-Not. 49 
 
 THE PANSY. 
 
 Fragrant the Pansy breathing from the meadows, 
 As the west wind bows down the long green grass ; 
 
 Now dark, now golden, as the fleeting shadows 
 Of the light clouds pass, as they wont to pass 
 A long while ago. 
 
 THE COUNTRY CHILD'S LANTERN. 
 
 A Glowworm found in lanes remote 
 Is murdered for its shining coat. 
 And put in flowers that nature weaves 
 With hollow shapes and silken leaves, — 
 Such as the Canterbury Bell, — 
 Serving for lamp or lantern well. 
 
 Clare. 
 
 NARCISSUS AND VIOLET. 
 
 The pale and delicate narcissus' flowers 
 Bending so languidly, as still they found 
 In the pure wave a love and destiny. 
 
 Miss Landon. 
 The violet's azure eye 
 Which gazes on the sky 
 Until its hue grows like what it beholds. 
 
 Shelley. 
 
 £
 
 STANZAS FOR MUSIC. 
 
 HERE'S not a joy the world can give like that it 
 takes away. 
 When the glow of early thought declines in feel- 
 ing's dull decay ; 
 'Tis not on youth's smooth cheek the blush alone, 
 
 which fades so fast, 
 But the tender bloom of heart is gone, ere youth itself 
 be past. 
 
 Then the few whose spirits float above the wreck of 
 
 happmess 
 Are driven o'er the shoals of guilt or ocean of excess : 
 The magnet of their course is gone, or only points in 
 
 vain 
 The shore to which their shiver'd sail shall never stretch 
 
 again. 
 
 Then the mortal coldness of the soul like death itself 
 
 comes down ; 
 It cannot feel for others' woes, it dare not dream its 
 
 own :
 
 Stanzas for Music. 51 
 
 That heavy chill has frozen o'er the fountain of our 
 
 tears. 
 And though the eye may sparkle still, 'tis where the ice 
 
 appears. 
 
 Though wit may flash from fluent lips, and mirth dis- 
 tract the breast. 
 
 Through midnight hours that yield no more their former 
 hope of rest : 
 
 'Tis but as ivy-leaves around the ruin'd turret wreath. 
 
 All green and wildly fresh without, but worn and gray 
 beneath. 
 
 Oh ! could I feel as I have felt, or be what I have been. 
 Or weep as I could once have wept, o'er many a vanish'd 
 
 scene ; 
 As springs in deserts found seem sweet, all brackish 
 
 though they be. 
 So midst the wither'd waste of life those tears would 
 
 flow to me. 
 
 Byron.
 
 
 m 
 
 THE FRIENDS THAT ARE GONE. 
 
 O ye think of the hopes that are gone, Jeanie, 
 As ye sit by your fire at night ? 
 Do ye gather them up as they faded fast 
 Like buds with an early blight?" 
 " I think of the hopes that are gone, Robin, 
 
 And I mourn not their stay was fleet ; 
 For they fell as the leaves of the red rose fall. 
 And were even in falling sweet." 
 
 " Do ye think of the friends that are gone, Jeanie, 
 
 As ye sit by your fire at night ? 
 Do ye wish they were round you again once more, 
 
 By the hearth that they made so bright ?" 
 " I think of the friends that are gone, Robin, 
 
 They are dear to my heart as then : 
 But the best and the dearest among them all 
 
 I have never wished back again 1"
 
 The Forget-me-Not. ^3 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 The forward violet thus did I chide: 
 
 Sweet thief, whence didst thou steal thy sweet that 
 smells, 
 If n-jt from my love's breath ? The purple pride 
 
 Which on thy soft cheek for complexion dwells 
 In my love's veins thou hast too grossly dyed. 
 
 The lily I condemned for thy hand. 
 And buds of marjoram had stolen thy hair : 
 
 The roses fearfully on thorns did stand. 
 One blushing shame, another white despair : 
 
 A third, nor red nor white, had stolen of both. 
 And to his robbery had annex'd thy breath ; 
 
 But, for his theft, in pride of all his growth 
 A vengeful canker eat him up to death. 
 More flowers I noted, yet I none could see. 
 But sweet or colour it had stolen from thee. 
 
 Shakspeare. 
 
 ALPINE GENTIAN. 
 
 Who, with living flowers 
 Of loveliest blue, spread garlands at your feet ? 
 God ! let the torrents, like a shout of nations, 
 Answer! And let the ice-plains echo God. 
 
 Coleridge.
 
 54 The Forget-me-Not. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 Wave — that wanderest singing by. 
 Bearing leaves and flowers witii thee 
 
 To the lady of my heart 
 Waft a benison from me. 
 
 Wind — that rov'st around the grove. 
 
 Kissing every flower nigh, 
 I'll send thee on a sweeter search. 
 
 Bear ray own sweet love my sigh. 
 
 Tree — that show'st my graven word. 
 
 Thine be yet a happier lot, 
 Mayst thou meet my maiden's eye, 
 
 Bidding her " Forget me not." 
 
 Miss Laxdon. 
 
 COMMON RAGWORT. 
 
 My childhood's earliest thoughts are link'd w^ith theej 
 The sight of thee calls back the robin's songs 
 
 Who from the dark old tree 
 
 Beside the door, sang clearly all day long, 
 
 And I secure in childish piety. 
 
 Listened as if I heard an angel sing. 
 
 With news from heaven, which he did bring 
 Fresh every day to my untainted ears 
 When birds and flowers and I were happy peers.
 
 The Forget-me-Not. 55 
 
 FLORA'S GARLAND. 
 
 Wreathed of the sunny Celandine — the brief 
 Courageous wind-flower, loveliest of the frail, — 
 The Hazel's crimson star, — the Woodbine's leaf,^ 
 The Daisy with its half-closed eye of grief. 
 Prophets of fragrance, beauty, joy, and song. 
 
 LINARIA— YELLOW TOADFLAX. 
 
 And thou, Linaria, mingle in my wreath 
 
 Thy golden dragons, for though perfumed breath 
 
 Escapes not from thy yellow petals, yet 
 
 Glad thoughts bringest thou of hedgerow foliage, wet 
 
 With tears and dew ; lark warbling, and green ferns 
 
 O'er-spanning cr\'stal runnels, where there turns 
 
 And twines the glossy ivy. 
 
 FOXGLOVE. 
 
 Upon the sunny bank 
 The foxglove rears its pyramid of bells. 
 Gloriously freckled, purpled and white, the flower 
 That cheers Devonia's fields.
 
 THE GARDEN. 
 
 HEN, dearest Lord, when shall I be 
 A garden seal'd to all but Thee ? 
 No more expos'd, no more undone j 
 But live, and grow to Thee alone ? 
 
 'Tis not, alas ! on this low earth 
 That such pure flowers can find a birth 
 Only they spring above the skies. 
 Where none can live till here he dies. 
 
 Then let me die, that I may go. 
 And dwell where those bright lilies grow; 
 Where those best plants of glory rise, 
 And make a safer paradise. 
 
 No dangerous fruit, no tempting Eve, 
 No crafty serpent to deceive; 
 But we like gods indeed shall be; — 
 Oh ! let me die that life to see.
 
 Tlie Garden. 57 
 
 Thus says my song : but does my heart 
 Join with the words, and sing its part? 
 Am I so thorough wise to choose 
 The other world, and this refuse ? 
 
 Why should I not ? What do I find 
 
 That fully here contents my mind ? 
 
 What is this meat, and drink, and sleep. 
 
 That such poor things from heaven should keep ? 
 
 What is this honour, or great place. 
 Or bag of money, or fair face ? 
 What's all the world, that thus we should 
 Still long to dwell with flesh and blood ? 
 
 Fear not, my soul, stand to thy word. 
 Which thou hast sung to thy dear Lord ; 
 Let but thy love be firm and true. 
 And with more heat thy wish renew. 
 
 Oh may this dying life make haste 
 To die into true life at last; 
 No hope have I to live before. 
 But then to live and die no more. 
 
 Great, ever-living God, to Thee, 
 In essence one, in Persons three j 
 May all thy works their tribute bring. 
 And every age thy glory sing. 
 
 Amen. 
 "HicKEs's Devotions."
 
 FLOWERS. 
 
 OWING adorers of the gale, 
 Ye cowslips delicately pale. 
 
 Upraise your loaded stems; 
 Unfold youi cups in splendour, speak ! 
 Who decked you with that ru.idy streak, 
 And gilt your golden gems ? 
 
 Violets, sweet tenants of the shade. 
 In purple's richest pride ai rayed, 
 
 Yoar errand here fulfil ; 
 Go, bid the artist's simple strain 
 Your lustre imitate in vain. 
 
 And match vour Maker's skill. 
 
 Daisies, ye flowers of lowly birth. 
 Embroiderers of the carpet earth. 
 
 That stud the velvet sod; 
 Open to Spring's refreshing air. 
 In sweetest smiling bloom declare 
 
 Your Maker and my God. 
 
 Clare.
 
 TO A FAVOURITE POLYANTHUS. 
 
 OW the rich cups of that so lovely flower 
 
 Lift to the heavens their purple velvet leaves ! 
 That every petal, freshened by the shower 
 Which falls in dew-drops from its slanting eaves. 
 May feel the warm sap through its vessels run. 
 In iilad obedience to the ^lowins; sun. 
 
 Each fragrant chalice breathes upon the air 
 A scent more sweet than censer ever flung 
 
 In clouds of incense, blmding all the glare 
 Of garish c.ndles, when the mass was sung: 
 
 *' The long-drawn aisle," and the cathedral's gloom, 
 
 Ne'er felt the richness of such rare perfume. 
 
 With forms more graceful, and with vestments clad. 
 Such as the haughty prelate never wore. 
 
 They give to God an adoration glad. 
 
 That well might teach us, all our souls to pour 
 
 In high-souled, earnest, heaven-uplifted prayer 
 
 To Him who doth alike for all His children care, 
 
 G. W.
 
 STANZAS TO TWO EARLY VIOLETS. 
 
 WINS of the spring 
 What airs of wood-wild sweets 
 Lurk in your fragrant leaves! 
 What dreams ye bring 
 Of early nameless joys that youth first greets. 
 Ere time the heart bereaves 
 Of all its gladness! 
 
 Oh ! vague delight, 
 Which hails the vernal day 
 Of youthful flowery morn. 
 With hopes as bright 
 As Nature's robe is gorgeously gay. 
 Ere the fresh heart is worn 
 By withering sadness. 
 
 Oh ! vague delight ! 
 No more in after-day 
 Ye ever can return ; 
 
 A mildewed blight
 
 Stanzas to Two Early Violets. 6i 
 
 Obscures the brightness of that matin ray. 
 And then we just discern 
 Our joys were madness. 
 
 Children of Spring ! 
 Yet still your blossoms bear 
 Power of refined delight ; 
 Ye bid me sing 
 Of dreams and days the vulgar cannot share; 
 In fortune's proud despite 
 I give thee welcoming. 
 
 Anon. 
 
 A THOUGHT OF THE DAISY 
 
 WHEN IN BRAZIL. 
 
 I WANDER alone, and often look 
 For the primrose bank by the rippling brook ; 
 Which wakened to life by vernal beams. 
 An emblem of youth and beauty seems. 
 And I ask where the violet and daisy grow ! 
 But a breeze-borne voice, in whisperings low, 
 Swept from the north o'er southern seas 
 Tells me I'm far from the land of these. 
 
 Gardner.
 
 LOVE SHUT OUT OF THE FLOWER-GARDEN. 
 
 [LOSE the porch and bar the door ! 
 Onward may thy footsteps stray : 
 Never more in idle hour 
 
 Bend thou here thy treacherous way. 
 
 Heart's-ease trembles all around. 
 As thy wild breath wanders by; 
 
 Roses to thy bosom bound — 
 Yield their latest, sweetest sigh. 
 
 Cruel boy ! — abjured and scorned. 
 Here thy blushing trophies glow; 
 
 Love-lies-bleeding all around — 
 
 Speed thee ! dangerous vagrant ; — go ! 
 
 Where yon fountain sparkles clear. 
 Low beneath its willowy shade. 
 
 Nurslings of one parent born, 
 Love and idleness have played.
 
 Love shut out of the Flower-Garden. 63 
 
 Where yon wild-rose flaunts her flowers, 
 (Once its garlands bound my hair,) 
 
 Changed for me those sunny hours. 
 Thou thy thorn hast planted there. 
 
 Frailest woodbine, all untwined. 
 Wanders here forlorn and free ; 
 
 Emblem of the maiden's mind, 
 Who has placed her trust in thee. 
 
 How, within my calm retreat. 
 Could thy truant footsteps stray ? 
 
 Bowed beneath thy breath's control. 
 Did my steadiest fence give way. 
 
 Passion's-flowers are past and gone ; 
 
 Still around one lovely spot. 
 All her turquoise gems unchanged. 
 
 Blooms the meek Forget-me-not. 
 
 Once, beneath thy fickle power. 
 
 Glowed the hour, or gloomed the day ', 
 
 'Novf my chastened bosom owns 
 Wisdom's rule and reason's sway. 
 
 Leave me to my new found peace ; 
 
 Leave me to my late repose : 
 Here at length my troubles cease — 
 
 Here my heart forgets its woes.
 
 64 The Forget-me-Not. 
 
 Joy of purer influence born, 
 
 Hope of loftier aim I know — 
 Now thy stormy power I scorn : 
 
 Leave me, child I — thou needs must go. 
 
 Art thoa fled without a word ? 
 
 Closed the porch and barred the door : 
 Are thy loved companions gone ? 
 
 Fair-haired youth had flown before. 
 
 Must I from each idol part ; 
 
 To each transport bid adieu. 
 Which around my youthful heart 
 
 Once its blest delusions threw ? 
 
 Yet sweet Love ! with tears and grief, 
 
 I thy wings receding see ; 
 Sorrow still on parting waits, — 
 
 Hope and joy retire with thee ! 
 
 RoDERiGo CoTTA — translated by 
 Mrs. Lawrence. 
 
 SWEET PEAS. 
 
 Sweet peas, on tiptoe for a flight 
 With wings of gentle flush o'er delicate white. 
 And taper fingers, catching at all things 
 To bind them round about with tiny rings. 
 
 Keats.
 
 The Forget-me-Not. 6^ 
 
 ON A FADED VIOLET. 
 
 The odour from the flower is gone ; 
 
 Which, like thy kisses, breathed on me I 
 The colour from the flower is flown, 
 
 "Which glowed of thee, and only thee : 
 
 A shrivelled, lifeless, vacant form. 
 It lies on my abandoned breast. 
 
 And mocks the heart which yet is warm. 
 With cold and silent rest. 
 
 I weep — my tears revive it not ! 
 
 I sigh — it breathes no more on me ; 
 Its mute and uncomplaining lot 
 
 Is such as mine should be. 
 
 Crush not the-flovv^er while yet it blooms, 
 
 Nor cast in scorn its sweets away. 
 That breathe around such rich perfumes. 
 
 But with its love will soon decay. 
 Crush not the tender flower of love. 
 
 Nor rudely tear it from thy heart; 
 Oh ! never may the star above 
 
 By darkening clouds from view depart.
 
 THE FIRST MORNING OF SPRING. 
 
 |REAK from your chains, ye lingering streams; 
 Rise, blossoms, from your wintry dreams j 
 Drear fields, your robes of verdure take ; 
 
 Birds, from your trance of silence wake; 
 
 Glad trees, resume your leafy crown j 
 
 Shrubs, o'er the mirror-brooks bend down; 
 
 Bland zephyrs, whereso'er ye stray. 
 
 The Spring doth call you, — come away. 
 
 Thou, too, my soul, with quickened force 
 
 Pursue thy brief, thy measured course; 
 
 With grateful zeal each power employ; 
 
 Catch vigour from Creation's joy ; 
 
 And deeply, on thy shortening span, 
 
 Stamp love to God and love to man. 
 
 But Spring, with tardy step appears. 
 Chill is her eye, and dim with tears; 
 Still are the founts in fetters bound, — 
 The flower-germs shrink within the ground.
 
 The First Morning of Spring. 6j 
 
 Where are the warblers of the sky ? 
 
 I ask, — and angry blasts reply. 
 
 It is not thus in heavenly bowers : — 
 
 Nor ice-bound rill nor drooping flowers. 
 
 Nor silent harp, nor folded wing, 
 
 Invade that everlasting Spring 
 
 Toward which we look with wishful tear, 
 
 While pilgrims in this wintry sphere. 
 
 SlGOURNEY. 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 TO THE CAMELIA JAPONICA. 
 
 Say, what impels me, pure and spotless flower. 
 
 To view thee with a secret sympathy ? 
 
 — Is there some living spirit shrined in thee? 
 That, as thou bloom'st within my humble bower. 
 Endows thee with some strange mysterious power. 
 
 Waking high thoughts ? — As there perchance might 
 be 
 
 Some angel form of truth and purity. 
 Whose hallowed presence shared my lonely hour ? 
 
 — Yes, lovely flower, 'tis not thy virgin glow, 
 
 Thy petals whiter than descending snow. 
 Nor all the charms thy velvet folds display, 
 
 'Tis the soft image of some beaming mind, 
 
 By grace adorn' d, by elegance refin'd. 
 That o'er my heart thus holds its silent sway. 
 
 W. RoscoE. 
 
 F 2
 
 SPRING IN NEW YORK. 
 
 jHE country ever has a lagging Spring, 
 II Waiting for May to call its violets forth, 
 
 roses — showers and sunshine 
 
 And 
 
 June its 
 bring 
 
 Slowly the deepening verdure o'er the earth; 
 To put their foliage out the woods are slack. 
 And one by one the singing birds come back. 
 
 W^ithin the city's bounds tne time of flowers 
 Comes earlier. Let a mild and sunny day. 
 
 Such as full often, for a few bright hours. 
 
 Breathes through the sky of March the airs of May, 
 
 Shine on our roofs and chase the wintry gloom. 
 
 And, lo! our borders glow with sudden bloom. 
 
 For the wide side-walks of Broadway are then 
 Gorgeous as are a rivulet's bank in June, 
 
 That overhung with blossoms, through its glen, 
 Slides soft away beneath the sunny noon,
 
 spring in New York. 6g 
 
 And they who search the untrodden wood for flowers. 
 Meet in its depths no lovelier ones than ours. 
 
 For here are eyes that shame the violet. 
 
 Or the dark drop that on the pansy lies. 
 And foreheads white as, when in clusters set. 
 
 The anemones by forest fountains rise ; 
 And the spring-beauty boasts no tenderer stieak 
 Than the soft red on many a youthful cheek. 
 
 And thick about those lovely temples lie 
 
 Locks that the lucky Yignardonne has curled. 
 
 Thrice happy man ! whose trade it is to buy. 
 
 And bake, and braid those love-knots of the world. 
 
 Who curls of every glossy colour keepest. 
 
 And sellest, it is said, the blackest cheapest. 
 
 A.nd well thou may'st — for Italy's brown maids 
 Send the dark locks with which their brows are 
 dressed ; 
 
 And Gascon lasses, from their jetty braids. 
 Crop half, to buy a riband for the rest : 
 
 But the fresh Norman girls their tresses spare. 
 
 And the Dutch damsel keeps her flaxen hair. 
 
 Then, henceforth, let no maid nor matron grieve, 
 
 To see her locks of an unlovely hue. 
 Frowsy or thin, for liberal art shall give 
 
 Such piles of curls as nature never knew : 
 Eve, with her veil of tresses, at the sight 
 Had blushed outdone, and owned herself a fright.
 
 70 The Forget-me-Not. 
 
 Soft voices and light laughter wake the street. 
 Like notes of woodbirds, and, where'er the eye 
 
 Threads the long way, plumes wave, and twinkling 
 feet 
 Fall light, as hastes the crowd of beauty by ; 
 
 The ostrich, hurrying o'er the desert space. 
 
 Scarce bore those tossing plumes wnth fleeter pace. 
 
 No swimming Juno gait, of languor born. 
 Is theirs, but a light step of freest grace. 
 
 Light as Camilla's o'er the unbent corn, 
 A step that speaks the spirit of the place. 
 
 Since Quiet, meek old dame, was driven away 
 
 To Sing-Sing and the shores of Tappan bay. 
 
 Ye that dash by in chariots ! who will care 
 For steeds or footmen now ? ye cannot show 
 
 Fair face, and dazzling dress, and graceful air. 
 And last edition of the shape ! Ah, no. 
 
 These sights are for the earth and open sky. 
 
 And your loud wheels unheeded rattle by. 
 
 Bryant.
 
 THE VIOLET. 
 
 WEET lowly plant ! once more I bend 
 To hail thy presence here. 
 Like a beloved returning friend. 
 From absence doubly dear. 
 
 Wert thou for ever in our sight. 
 Might we not love thee less ? 
 
 But now thou bringest new delight. 
 Thou still hast power to bless. 
 
 Still doth thy April presence bring 
 
 Of April joys a dream. 
 When life was in its sunny spring — 
 
 A fair unrippled stream. 
 
 And still thine exquisite perfume 
 
 Is precious as of old : 
 And still thy modest tender bloom. 
 
 It joys me to behold.
 
 72 The Forge-t-me-Not. 
 
 It joys and cheers, whene'er I see 
 Pain on earth's meek ones press. 
 
 To think the storm that rends the tree 
 Scathes not thy lowliness. 
 
 And thus may human weakness find. 
 E'en in thy lowly flower. 
 
 An image cheering to the mind 
 In many a trj'ing hour. 
 
 Akon. 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 Bright rose! that on my father's honoured vest 
 Hath shed sweet perfume, — breathing o'er his sense 
 The gales and odours Spring's young suns dispense 
 O'er opening flowers, in early fragrance drest; — 
 Brif^ht rose ! now sacred are thy fading lea\es. 
 And dear thy wither'd stem; for thou dost tell 
 Of hours of peace and love remember'd well, — 
 A father's love, of which time ne'er bereaves. 
 Oh ! be it mine, on this autumnal day. 
 Like thee to shed delights and sweetly cheer 
 The lingering hours of the declining year. 
 And keep cold winter's blast long, long away; 
 So like thy fragrant flower shall thought of me 
 Unto his soul sweetness and sunshine be. 
 
 J. E. R.
 
 THE KNIGHT AND LADY FAIR. 
 
 OGETHER they sate by a river's side, 
 A knight and a lady gay. 
 And they watched the deep and eddying tide 
 Round a flowery islet stray. 
 
 And, " Oh for that flower of brilliant hue," 
 
 Said then the lady fair, 
 "To grace my neck with the blossoms blue. 
 
 And braid my nut-brown hair !" 
 
 The knight has plunged in the whirling wave 
 
 All for his lady's smile : 
 And he swims the stream with courage brave. 
 
 And he gains yon flowery isle. 
 
 And his fingers have cropped the blossoms olue. 
 And the prize they backward bear ; 
 
 To deck his love with the brilliant hue 
 And deck her nut-brown hair.
 
 74 
 
 The For^et-me-Not. 
 
 But the way is long and the current strong, 
 
 And alas for that gallant knight ! 
 For the waves prevail and his stout arms fail. 
 
 Though cheered by his lady's sight. 
 
 Then the blossoms blue to the bank he threw. 
 
 Ere he sank in the eddying tide ! 
 And " Lady, I'm gone, thine own true knight, — 
 
 Forget me not !" he cried. 
 
 This farewell pledge the lady caught ; 
 
 And hence, as legends say. 
 The flower is a sign to awaken thought 
 
 In friends who are far away. 
 
 For the lady fair of her knight so true, 
 
 Still remembered the hapless lot ; 
 And she cherished the flower of brilliant hue. 
 And she braided her hair with the blossoms blue. 
 
 And then called it " Forget-me-not !" 
 
 Bishop Mant.
 
 DAFFODILS. 
 
 WANDERED lonely as a cloud 
 That floats on high o'er vales and hills. 
 When all at once I saw a crowd, 
 A host of golden daffodils. 
 Beside the lake, beneath the trees, 
 Fluttering and dancing in the breeze. 
 
 Continuous as the stars that shine 
 And twinkle in the mdky-way. 
 They stretched in never-ending line 
 Along the margin of a bay. 
 Ten thousand saw I at a glance. 
 Tossing their heads in sprightly dance. 
 
 The waves beside them danced ; but they 
 
 Outdid the sparkling waves in glee : 
 
 A poet could not but be gay, 
 
 In such a jocund company ; 
 
 I gazed — and gazed — but little thought 
 
 What wealth the show to me had brought :
 
 76 The Forget -jn e- Not. 
 
 For oft when on my couch I lie. 
 In vacant or in pensive mooJ, 
 They flash upon that inward eye 
 Which is the bliss of solitude ; 
 And then my heart with pleasure fills. 
 And dances with the daffodils. 
 
 Wordsworth. 
 
 LOVE'S BED OF STATE. 
 
 Cupid nestles in the rose; 
 
 W^ell he may ! well he may ! 
 Sporting dalliance with repose. 
 
 Where he slumbers, lapped elate. 
 
 Breathing odouis exquisite; 
 Round the blushing leaves, all close. 
 
 Curtaining Love's bed of state ! 
 
 Well-a-day ! 
 
 Lulled by song of humming bee ! 
 
 Lullaby ! lullaby ! 
 Dreaming plaguish witchery . 
 Alack ! the lover hath a heart, 
 Cupid's arrow hath a dart. 
 And the bee a sting, with his honey. 
 And the rose a thorn, and love a smart ! 
 Alack-a-day ! 
 
 Daniel.
 
 A WEE FLOWER. 
 
 BONNIE wee flower grew green in the wuds. 
 Like a twinkling wee star amang the cluds; 
 And the langer it leevit, the greener it grew. 
 For 'twas lulled by the winds, and fed by the dew, 
 Oh ! fresh was the air where it reared its head, 
 Wi' the radiance and odour its young leaves shed. 
 
 When the morning sun rose frae his eastern ha'. 
 This bonnie wee flower was the earliest of a' 
 To open its cups sealed up in the dew. 
 And spread out its leaves o' the yellow and blue 
 
 When the winds were still and the sun rode high. 
 And the clear mountain stream ran whimpling by, 
 When the wee birds sang, and the wilderness bee 
 Was floating awa', like a clud o'er the sea; 
 This bonnie wee flov/er was blooming unseen — 
 The sweet child of summer — in its rokelay greent
 
 78 The Forget-me-Not. 
 
 And when the night clud grew dark on the plain, 
 When the stars were out, and the moon in the wane, 
 When the bird and the bee had gane to rest, 
 And the dews of the night the green earth press'd. 
 This bonnie wee flower lay smiling asleep. 
 Like a beautiful pearl in the dark green deep. 
 
 And when autumn came, and the summer had pass'd. 
 And the wan leaves were strewn on the twirling blast. 
 This bonnie wee flower grew naked and bare. 
 And its wee leaves shrank in the frozen air; 
 Wild darnel and nettle sprang rank from the ground. 
 But the rose and the wild lilies were drooping around. 
 And this bonnie blue flower hung doon its wee head. 
 And the bright morning sun flung its beams on its bed; 
 And the pale stars looked forth — but the wee flower was 
 dead. 
 
 Anderson.
 
 The Forget-me-Not. 79 
 
 THE BROKEN FLOWER. 
 
 H ! wear it on thy heart, my love ! 
 Still, still a little while ! 
 Sweetness is lingering in its leaves, 
 Though faded be their smile. 
 Yet for the sake of what hath been. 
 
 Oh ! cast it not away ! 
 'Twas born to grace a summer scene, 
 A long bright golden day. 
 
 My love! 
 A long bright golden day ! 
 
 A little while around thee, love ! 
 
 Its fragrance yet shall cling, 
 Telling that on thy heart hatti lain, 
 
 A fair though faded thing. 
 But not even that warm heart hath power 
 
 To win it back from fate. — »' 
 Oh! I am like that broken flower, 
 . Cherished too late, too late, 
 My love ! 
 
 Cherished, alas ! too late ! 
 
 Hemans.
 
 A THOUGHT OF THE ROSE. 
 
 OW much of memory dwells amidst thy bloom^ 
 Rose ! ever \N'earing beauty for thy dower ! 
 The Bridal day — the Festival — the Tomb — 
 Thou hast thy part in each, — thou stateliest flower ! 
 
 Therefore with thy soft breath come floating by 
 A thousand images of Love and Grief, 
 
 Dreams, fiU'd with tokens of mortality, 
 
 Deep thoughts of all things beautiful and brief. 
 
 Not such thy spells o'er those that hail'd thee first 
 In the clear light of Eden's golden day; 
 
 There thy rich leaves to crimson glory burst, 
 Link'd with no dim remembrance of decay. 
 
 Rose ! for the banquet gather' d, and the bier ; 
 
 Rose ! coloured now by human hope or pain , 
 Surely, where death is not — nor change, nor fear. 
 
 Yet may we meet thee, Joy's own Flower, again ! 
 
 Mrs. Hemans.
 
 HEARTS-EASE. 
 
 N gardens oft a beauteous flower there grows, 
 By vulgar eyes unnoticed and unseen ; 
 In sweet security it humbly blows. 
 
 And rears its purple head to deck the green. 
 
 This flower, as Nature's poet sweetly sings. 
 
 Was once milk-white, and Heart's-ease was its name. 
 
 Till wanton Cupid poised his roseate wings, 
 A vestal's sacred bosom to inflame. 
 
 With treacherous aim the god hi s arrow drew. 
 
 Which she with icy coldness did repel ; 
 Rebounding thence with feathery speed it flew. 
 
 Till on this lonely flower, at last, it fell. 
 
 Heart's-ease no more the wandering shepherd found ; 
 
 No more the nymphs its snowy form possess ; 
 Its white now changed to purple by Love's wound, 
 
 Heart's-ease no more, — tis Love-in-idleness. 
 
 Mrs. Sheridan. 
 
 3
 
 HEART'S-EASE. 
 
 USED to love thee, simple flower. 
 To love thee dearly when a boy ; 
 
 For thou didst seem in childhood's hour. 
 The smiling type of childhood's joy. 
 
 But now thou only work'st my grief. 
 By waking thoughts of pleasures fled. 
 
 Give me, give me the withered leaf. 
 That falls on Autumn's bosom dead. 
 
 For that ne'er tells of what has been. 
 But warns me what I soon shall be ; 
 
 It looks not back on pleasure's scene. 
 But points unto futurity. 
 
 I love thee not, thou simple flower. 
 For thou art gay, and I am lone ; 
 
 Thy beauty died with childhood's hour- 
 The heart's-ease from my path is gone. 
 
 Anon.
 
 THE BEE AND THE LADY-FLOWER. 
 
 S Julia once a slumbering lay, 
 It chanced a bee did fly that way. 
 After a dew, or dew-like shower. 
 To tipple freely in a flower. 
 For some rich flower he took the lip 
 Of Julia, and began to sip ; 
 But when he felt he sucked from thence 
 Honey, and in the quintessence, 
 He drank so much he scarce could stir, 
 So Julia took the pilferer. 
 And thus surprised, as filchers use, 
 He thus began to make excuse : 
 Sweet Lady-flower, I never brought 
 Hither the least one thieving thought ; 
 But taking these rare lips of yours 
 For some fresh, fragrant, luscious flowers, 
 I thought I might there take a taste. 
 Where so much syrup ran at waste, 
 
 G 2
 
 84 The Forget-me-Not. 
 
 Besides, know this, I never sting 
 The flower that gives me nourishing ; 
 But with a kiss, or thanks, do pay 
 For honey that I bear away. 
 This said, he laid his little scrip 
 Of honey 'fore her ladyship : 
 And told her, as some tears did fall, 
 That that he took, and that was all. 
 At which she smiled, and bad him go 
 And take his bag ; but this much know. 
 When next he came a-pilfering so. 
 He should from her full lips derive 
 Honey enough to fill his hive. 
 
 Herrick.
 
 SONG OF THE CAPTIVE. 
 
 FROM THE GERMAN OF GOETHE. 
 CAPTIVE. 
 
 FLOWER that's wondrous fair, I know, 
 
 My bosom holds it dear ; 
 To seek that flower I long to go. 
 But am imprisoned here. 
 'Tis no light grief oppresses me; 
 For, in the days my steps were free, 
 
 I had it always near. 
 Far round the tower I send mine eye. 
 
 The tower so steep and tall ! 
 But nowhere can the flower descry 
 
 From this high castle wall ; 
 And him who'll bring me my desire. 
 Or be he knight or be he squire. 
 My dearest friend I'll call. 
 
 My blossoms near thee I disclose. 
 And hear thy wretched plight ;
 
 86 The Forget-me-Not. 
 
 Thou meanest me, no doubt, — the rose. 
 
 Thou noble, hapless knight. 
 A lofty mind in thee is seen. 
 And in thy bosom reigns the queen 
 Of flowers, as is her right. 
 
 CAPTIVE. 
 
 Thy crimson bud I duly prize. 
 
 In outer robe of green ; 
 For this thou'rt dear in maiden's eyes, 
 
 As gold and jewels' sheen. 
 Thy wreath adorns the fairest brow. 
 And yet the flower — it is not thou. 
 
 Whom my still wishes mean. 
 
 The little rose has cause of pride. 
 And upwards aye will soar ; 
 
 Vet am I held by many a bride 
 The rose's wreath before. 
 
 And beats thy bosom faithfully, 
 
 And art thou true, and pure as I, 
 Thou'lt prize the lily more. 
 
 CAPTIVE. 
 
 I call myself both chaste and pure, 
 And free from passions low ; 
 
 And yet these walls my limbs immure 
 In loneliness and woe.
 
 Song of the Captive, 87 
 
 Though thou dost seem in white arrayed, 
 Like many a pure and beauteous maid. 
 One dearer thing I know. 
 
 And dearer I, the pink, must be. 
 And me thou sure dost choose. 
 
 Or else the gardener ne'er for me 
 Such watchful care would use; 
 
 A crowd of leaves enriching bloom ! 
 
 And mine through life the sweet perfume. 
 And all the thousand hues. 
 
 CAPTIVE. 
 
 The pink, can no one justly slight. 
 The gardener's favourite flower ; 
 
 He sets it now beneath the light, 
 Now shields it from its power ; 
 
 Yet, 'tis not pomp, who o'er the rest 
 
 In splendour shmes, can make me blest; 
 It is a still small flower. 
 
 I stand concealed, and bending low, 
 And do not love to speak ; 
 
 Yet will I, as/tis fitting now. 
 My wonted silence break. 
 
 For if 'tis I, thou gallant man. 
 
 Thy heart desires, thine, if I can. 
 My perfumes all I'll make.
 
 88 The Forget-me-Not. 
 
 The violet I esteem indeed. 
 
 So modest and so kind ; 
 Its fragrance sweet yet more I need. 
 
 To soothe mine anguished mind. 
 To you the truth will I confess ; 
 Here, 'mid this rocky dreariness. 
 
 My love I ne'er shall find. 
 
 The truest wife by yonder brook 
 
 Will roam the mournful day. 
 And hither cast the anxious look. 
 
 Long as immured I stay. 
 Whene'er she breaks a small blue flower. 
 And says "Forget me not V the power 
 
 I feel, though far away. 
 
 Yes, e'en though far, I feel its might. 
 
 For true love joins us twain. 
 And therefore 'mid the dungeon's night 
 
 I still in life remain. 
 And sinks my heart at my hard lot, 
 I but exclaim " Forget-me-not !" 
 
 And straight new life regain. 
 
 Anon.
 
 THE ALMOND TREE. 
 
 LEETING and falling, 
 Where is the bloom 
 Of yon fair almond tree ? 
 It is sunk in the tomb. 
 
 Its tomb, wheresoever 
 
 The wind may have borne 
 The leaves and the blossoms. 
 
 Its roughness has torn. 
 
 Some there are floating 
 On yon fountain's breast ; 
 
 Some line the moss 
 
 Of the nightingale's nest. 
 
 Some are just strewn 
 
 O'er the green grass below. 
 And there they lie stainless 
 
 As winter's first snow.
 
 9© The Forget-me-Not. 
 
 Yesterday on the boughs 
 
 They hung scented and fair : 
 
 To-day they are scattered 
 
 The breeze best knows where. 
 
 To-morrow, those leaves 
 Will be scentless and dead. 
 
 For the kind to lament 
 And the careless to tread. 
 
 And is it not thus 
 
 With each hope of the heart ? 
 With all its best feelings. 
 
 Thus will they depart. 
 
 They'll go forth to the world 
 
 On the wings of the air. 
 Rejoicing and hoping. 
 
 But what will be there ? 
 
 False lights to deceive. 
 
 False friends to delude, 
 Till the heart, in its sorrow, 
 
 Left only to brood — 
 
 Over feelings, crushed, chilled. 
 
 Sweet hopes ever flown ; 
 Like that tree, when its green leaves 
 
 And blossoms are gone. 
 
 Miss Landon.
 
 LINES 
 
 ON RECEIVING A BRANCH OF MEZEREON. 
 
 DOURS of spring, my sense ye charm. 
 
 With fragrance premati^re. 
 And 'mid these days of dark alarm. 
 
 Almost to hope allure. 
 Methinks with purpose soft ye come. 
 
 To tell of brighter hours. 
 Of May's blue skies, abundant bloom. 
 
 Her sunny gales and showers. 
 
 Alas ! for me shall May in vain 
 
 The powers of life restore ; 
 These eyes that weep and watch in pain, 
 
 Shall see her charms no more. 
 No, no, this anguish cannot last j 
 
 Beloved friends, adieu ; 
 The bitterness of death were past. 
 
 Could I resign but you.
 
 p2 The Forget-me-Not. 
 
 Oh ! ye who soothe the pangs of death 
 
 With love's own patient care. 
 Still, still retain this fleeting breath. 
 
 Still pour the fervent prayer. 
 And ye whose smiles must greet my eye 
 
 No more, nor voice my ear. 
 Who breathe for me the tender sigh, 
 
 And shed the pitying tearj 
 
 Whose kindness, though far, far removed. 
 
 My grateful thoughts perceive; 
 Pride of my life — esteemed, beloved. 
 
 My last sad claim receive ! 
 Oh, do not quite your friend forget — 
 
 Forget alone her faults ; 
 And speak of her with fond regret. 
 
 Who asks your lingering thoughts. 
 
 Mrs. TiGHE.
 
 SONG. 
 
 ASSIE, let us stray together. 
 Far from town or tower; 
 O'er the mountain, where the heather 
 
 Spreads its purple flower : — 
 Princely halls were made for pride. 
 
 Towns for low deceit, dear Lassie ! — 
 'Tis but near the brae's green side. 
 
 Thou and I should meet, dear Lassie ! 
 
 Where the mountain-daisy's blowing 
 
 On the turf we tread. 
 Where the rippling burn is flowing 
 
 O'er its pebbly bed. 
 There— while ev'ry opening flower 
 
 As thy smile is sweet, dear Lassie ! 
 Shelter'd in some leafy bower. 
 
 Thou and I should meet, dear Lassie !
 
 SUMMER FLOWERS. 
 
 ELCOME, O pure and lowly forms, again 
 Unto the shadowy stillness of my room ! 
 For not alone ye bring a joyous tram 
 Of summer thoughts attendant on your bloom ; 
 Visions of freshness, of rich bowery gloom. 
 Of the low murmurs filling mossy dells, 
 Of stars that look down on your folded bells; 
 Through dewy leaves, of many a wild perfume. 
 Greeting the wanderer of hill and grove 
 Like sudden music ; more than this ye bring — 
 Far more ; ye whisper of the fost'ring love. 
 Which has thus clothed you, and whose dove-like wing 
 Broods o'er the sufferer, drawing fevered breath. 
 Whether the couch be that of life or death. 
 
 Mrs. Hemans.
 
 THE BLIND FLOWER-GIRL'S SONG. 
 
 UY my flowers, O buy, I pray. 
 
 The blind girl comes from far; 
 If the earth be as fair as I hear them say. 
 
 These flowers her children are ! 
 Do they her beauty keep ? 
 
 They are fresh from her lap, I know, 
 For I caught them fast asleep 
 
 In her arms, an hour ago, 
 With the air which is her breath. 
 Her soft and delicate breath. 
 
 Over them murmuring low. 
 On their lips her sweet kiss lingers yet. 
 And their cheeks with her tender tears are wet 
 For she weeps, that gentle mother weeps. 
 As morn and night her watch she keeps. 
 With a yearning heart and a passionate care; — 
 To see the young things grow so fair ; 
 
 She weeps — for love she weeps. 
 
 And the dews are the tears she weeps 
 From the well of a mother's love.
 
 p6 The Forget-me-Xot. 
 
 Ye have a world of light 
 
 Where love in the loved rejoices. 
 But the blind girl's home is the house of night. 
 
 And its beings are empty voices. 
 As one in the realm below 
 
 I stand by the streams of woe, 
 
 I hear the vain shadows glide, 
 
 I feel their soft breath at my side. 
 And I thirst their loved forms to see. 
 
 And I stretch my fond arms around. 
 
 And I catch but a shapeless sound. 
 For the living are ghosts to me. 
 
 Come buy ! come buy ! 
 Hark how the sweet things sigh. 
 For they have a voice like ours, — 
 " The breath of the blind girl closes 
 " The lea\es of the saddening roses : 
 " We are, we are sons of light, 
 " We shrink from this child of night: 
 " From the grasp of the blind girl free us, 
 " We yearn for the eyes that see us, 
 " We are for the night too gay, 
 " In your eyes we behold the day." 
 — buy, — O buy the flowers ! 
 
 BULWER.
 
 M^^^^W 
 
 REMEMBRANCE. 
 
 EMEMBRANCE! oh the crowd of thoughts 
 that word doth comprehend ! — 
 Thoughts burning in the lover's heart, or in the 
 breast of friend ; 
 Thoughts now o'ercharged with heaviness, now big with 
 
 life and light. 
 Upborne on wings of ripened hopes, or laden with their 
 blight; 
 Now fresh in healthful glow. 
 Now withering as they grow ; — 
 Oh! who shall paint Remembrance in its blended bliss 
 and woe ? 
 
 Remembrance! oh ! 'tis blessed, when the retrospective 
 glance 
 
 Lends but a brighter beam to days and years as they ad- 
 vance. 
 
 When present joys win richer zest from former doubts 
 and fears. 
 
 And we reap a smiling harvest from a seed-time past of 
 tears ; 
 
 3 H
 
 98 The Forget-me-Not. 
 
 Like lovers' healing kiss. 
 In semblance such as this. 
 Thou art in sooth, Remembrance, but another name for 
 bliss. 
 
 Remembrance ! ah, 'tis wretched, when its meditations 
 bring 
 
 Fresh and alive to view no forms but such as wound and 
 sting; 
 
 Bright prospects faded; kindness wronged ; warm confi- 
 dence betrayed ; 
 
 Affection scorned ; and friendship — but the shadow of a 
 shade ; 
 Alas ! in such a dress, 
 Fit partner of distress, 
 
 Alas ! what can Remembrance be, but added wretched- 
 
 Remembrance ! Where's the mortal who unshrinking 
 
 has withstood 
 Temptation of the evil one, and held his course of good ; 
 Has spurned the crooked bye-path, put aside the gilded 
 
 sin. 
 Unswayed by other voices than the still small voice 
 
 within ? — 
 Arrayed in robes of light, 
 Him doth Remembrance bright 
 Visit in cheering thoughts by day and placid dreams by 
 
 night.
 
 Rememlrance. 99 
 
 Remembrance! Ask of him who yields up principle for 
 
 place, 
 And barters simple honour for magnificent disgrace ; 
 Ask her whose treachery dooms a trusting heart to pine 
 
 to death ; 
 Ask him who love and service true requites — with empty 
 
 breath ; 
 Can power, rank, wealth, appease 
 The conscious mind's disease ? 
 Ask what, in still reflection's hour, Remembrance says 
 
 to these. 
 
 Remembrance ! What is it to him, the slave of power's 
 
 pretext. 
 The favourite of this hour's caprice, the victim of the 
 
 next; 
 A banished man — compelled in bitter listlessness to roam 
 Afar from home and friends and love, and all that makes 
 it home ; 
 Oh say, to such as he 
 What can Remembrance be. 
 But aggravated sentence of an inward misery ? 
 
 Remembrance ! Aye to him who borne in manhood's 
 
 healthful pride 
 O'er Danube's wave, or Tiber's stream, or Ganges' 
 
 swollen tide, 
 
 H 2
 
 loo The Forget-me-Kot, 
 
 From palace or from fort, from classic arch or trophied 
 
 dome. 
 Looks through a lengthened vista to the dear-loved scenes 
 of home. 
 Nor feels the wish is vain 
 To mix in them again ; — 
 To him Remembrance brings a pleasure unalloyed 
 by pain. 
 
 Remembrance ! Thou who readest, hast thou had what's 
 
 called a friend ? 
 A smiling one, a summer one ? Hast seen the summer's 
 
 end ? 
 Hast marked with Fortune's changing front this friend's 
 
 as changing face. 
 This would-be-thought so faithful one, while all was false 
 
 and base ; 
 His hollow forced respect, 
 His real mean neglect? 
 One needs not ask how thou dost feel Remembrance, I 
 
 suspect. 
 
 Remembrance ! — Sinking worth upraised, unfriended 
 
 merit reared. 
 The wretched soothed, the orphan fed, the heart of widow 
 
 cheered ; 
 The friend not coldly viewed because assisted from thy 
 
 store. 
 But all life's gentle courtesies thence only shown the 
 
 more : —
 
 Remembrance. ■ JOI 
 
 Whom thoughts like these attend. 
 To life's remotest end 
 Remembrance bears them company, a comforter and 
 friend. 
 
 Remembrance ! Fathom he who can wnat thoughts his 
 
 bosom swell 
 Who mourns the altered bearing of the one he loved so 
 
 well ; 
 The beaming eye, the witching smile, the voice so rich, 
 
 so kind. 
 Looks, words, hopes, promises, all gone, all scattered to 
 
 the wind ; — 
 His cup is filled to th' brim ; 
 And on its murky rim 
 Remembrance sits — oh ask not tchat Remembrance is 
 
 to him. 
 
 Remembrance! oh 'tis made of painful thoughts and 
 
 blissful too. 
 As autumn skies, now low'ring dark, now bright with 
 
 heavenly blue; 
 But this our consolation, that in stormy sky or fair. 
 In sunshine or in darkness, still a Providence is there; 
 That still, come cloud, come ray. 
 Come wind, "come what come may," 
 God and an honest heart will bring us through the 
 roughest day. 
 
 T. G. A.
 
 HOME. 
 
 |S this no dream, and do I see 
 
 My own paternal cot once more ? 
 How could I think that heaven for me 
 Reserved no happy lot in store ! 
 Come, then, prepare the festal lay — 
 
 And bid the sparkling wine cup foam ; 
 Let mirth and music grace the day 
 
 Which brmgs the weary wanderer home. 
 
 Oh ! I have been an exile long, 
 
 Have crossed Arabi/s sultry sands. 
 Have pass'd through Greece, renown'd in song. 
 
 And seen Columbia's fertile lands. 
 Have mark'd Italian sunsets glow 
 
 On many a lofty tower and dome ; 
 Yet is there not one splendid show 
 
 Can give delight like welcome home.
 
 Home. 103 
 
 I hear the humming of the bees ; 
 
 The murmuring warblers tell their tale, 
 Among the branches of the trees 
 
 That blossom round my own green vale. 
 Here I will draw my latest breath ; 
 
 Beyond this spot no more I'll roam ; 
 And, oh ! my spirit, after death. 
 
 Shall wan ler round my native home. 
 
 Richard Hill. 
 
 SONG OF THE FORGET-ME-NOT. 
 
 How many bright flowers now around me are glancing, 
 Each seeking its praise, or its beauty enhancing ! 
 The rose-buds are hanging like gems in the air. 
 And the lily-bell waves in her fragrance there. 
 Alas ! I can claim neither fortune nor power. 
 Neither beauty nor fragrance are cast in my lot; 
 But contented I cling to my lowly bower. 
 And smile while I whisper — ' Forget-me-uul !'
 
 SWISS HOME-SICKNESS. 
 
 TRANSLATED FROM THE LAST OF THE MELODIES SUNG EV 
 THE TVROLESE FAMILY. 
 
 " Herz, niein Herz, warum so traurig," &c. 
 
 HEREFORE so sad and faint, my heart ? — 
 The Stranger's land is fair ; 
 Yet weary, weary still thou art — 
 What find'st thou wanting there ? 
 
 What wanting? — all, oh! all I love! 
 
 Am I not lonely here ? 
 Through a fair land in sooth I rove, 
 
 Yet what like home is dear ? 
 
 My home ! oh ! thither would I i\y. 
 Where the free air is sweet, 
 
 My father's voice, my mother's eye. 
 My own wild hills to greet. 
 
 My hills, with all their soaring steeps. 
 With all their glaciers bright. 
 
 Where in his joy the chamois leaps. 
 Mocking the hunter's might.
 
 Swiss Honie- Sickness. 105 
 
 Oh ! but to hear the herd-bell sound. 
 
 When shepherds lead the way 
 Up the high Alps, and children bound. 
 
 And not a lamb will stray ! 
 
 Oh ! but to climb the uplands free. 
 And, where the pure streams foam, 
 
 By the blue shining lake, to see. 
 Once more, my hamlet-home! 
 
 Here, no familiar look I trace ; 
 
 I touch no friendly hand ; 
 No child laughs kindly in my face — 
 
 As in my own bright land ! 
 
 Mrs. Hemans.
 
 AS IT FELL UPON A DAY. 
 
 S it fell upon a day, 
 In the merry month of May, 
 Sitting in a pleasant shade 
 Which a grove of myrtles made. 
 Beasts did leap, and birds did sing. 
 Trees did grow, and plants did spring: 
 Everything did banish moan. 
 Save the nightingale alone : 
 She, poor bird, as all forlorn, 
 Lean'd her breast against a thorn. 
 And there sung the dolefull'st ditty. 
 That to hear it was great pity : 
 Fie, fie, fie, now would she cry, 
 Teru, teru, by and by : 
 That to hear her so complain. 
 Scarce I could from tears refrain; 
 For her griefs so lively shown. 
 Made me think upon mine own. 
 Ah ! (thought I) thou mourn'st in vain: 
 None take pity on thy pain :
 
 As it Fell upon a Day. 107 
 
 Senseless trees, they cannot hear thee ; 
 
 Ruthless bears, they will not cheer thee. 
 
 King Pandion, he is dead ; 
 
 All thy friends are lapp'd in lead : 
 
 All thy fellow birds do sing, 
 
 Careless of thy sorrowing. 
 
 Even so, poor bird, like thee. 
 
 None alive will pity me. 
 
 Whilst as fickle fortune smiled. 
 
 Thou and I were both beguiled. 
 
 Everyone that flatters thee, 
 
 Is no friend in misery. 
 
 Words are easy like the wind ; 
 
 Faithful friends are hard to find. 
 
 Every man will be thy friend. 
 
 Whilst thou hast wherewith to spend : 
 
 But if store of crowns be scant. 
 
 No man will supply thy want. 
 
 If that one be prodigal. 
 
 Bountiful they will him call : 
 
 And with such-like flattering, 
 
 *' Pity hut he icere a king." 
 
 Buf if fortune once do frown. 
 Then farewell his great renown : 
 They that fawn'd on him before. 
 Use his company no more. 
 He that is thy friend indeed. 
 He will help thee in thy need,
 
 io8 The Fors^et-me-Not. 
 
 If thou sorrow, he will weep ; 
 If thou wake, he cannot sleep : 
 Thus of every grief in heart 
 He with thee doth bear a part. 
 These are certain signs to know 
 Faithful friend from flattering foe. 
 
 Shakspeare. 
 
 PHILOCTETES. 
 
 When Philoctetes, in the Lemnian isle. 
 Like a form sculptured on a monument. 
 Lay couched, on him or his dread bow unbent 
 
 Some wild bird oft might settle, and beguile 
 
 The rigid features of a transient smile, 
 Disperse the tear, or to the sigh give vent. 
 Slackening the pains of ruthless banishment 
 
 From his loved home, and from heroic toil. 
 
 And trust that spiritual creatures round us move, 
 
 Griefs to allay which reason cannot heal; 
 Yea, veriest reptiles have sufficed to prove 
 
 To fettered wretchedness, that no Bastile 
 Is deep enough to exclude the light of love, 
 
 Though man for brother man has ceased to feel. 
 
 Wordsworth.
 
 THE LOTUS. 
 
 OW sweet it were, hearing the downward stream 
 With half-shut eyes ever to seem 
 Falling asleep in a half dream ! 
 To dream and dream, like yonder amber light. 
 Which will not leave the myrrh bush on the height ; 
 To hear each other's whispered speech; 
 
 Eating the Lotus, day by day. 
 To watch the crisping ripples on the beach, 
 
 x\nd tender curving lines of creamy spray; 
 To lend our hearts and spirits wholly 
 To the influence of mild-minded melancholy; 
 To muse and brood and live again in memory. 
 With those old faces of our infancy 
 Heaped over with a mound of grass, 
 Two handfuls of white dust, shut in an urn of brass. 
 
 The Lotus blooms below the flowery peak ; 
 
 The Lotus blows by every winding creek; 
 All day the wind breathes low, with mellower tone ; 
 Through every hollow cave and alley lone.
 
 10 
 
 The Forset-me-Not. 
 
 Round and round the spicy downs the yellow Lotus dust 
 
 is blown. 
 We have had enough of action and of motion, we 
 Rolled to starboard, rolled to larboard, when the surge was 
 
 seething free, 
 Where the wallowing monster spouted his foam fountains 
 
 in the sea. 
 Let us swear an oath, and keep it with an equal mind. 
 In the hollow Lotus land to live and lie reclined 
 On the hills like gods together, careless of mankind ; 
 For they lie beside their nectar, and the bolts are hurled 
 Far below them in the valleys, and the clouds are lightly 
 
 curled 
 Round their golden houses, girdled with the gleaming 
 
 world. 
 Surely, surely slumber is more sweet than toil; the 
 
 shore 
 Than labour in the deep, mid ocean, wind and wave and 
 
 oar; 
 O, rest ye, brother mariners ; we will not wander more. 
 
 Tennyson.
 
 THE GRECIAN MAIDENS REMEMBER 
 SAPPHO. 
 
 HEN evening came, around the well 
 
 They sate, beneath the rising moon. 
 And some, with voice of awe could tell 
 Of midnight's fays and nymphs who dwell 
 
 In holy fountains ; some would tune 
 Their lutes to sounds of softest close. 
 To tell of Sappho's love and woes. 
 
 Among these maidens there was one 
 Who to Leucadia late had btcn, — 
 Had stood beneath the evening sun 
 
 On its white, towering cliffs, and seen 
 The very spot where Sappho sung 
 Her swan-like music, ere she sprung 
 (Still holding in that fearful leap 
 By her loved lyre) into the deep ; 
 And dying quenched the fatal fire. 
 At once, of both her heart and lyre.
 
 TI2 The Forget-me-Not. 
 
 Mutely they listened all ; and well 
 Did the young travelled maiden tell 
 Of the dread height to which that steep 
 Beetles above the eddying deep ; 
 Of the lone sea birds, wheeling round 
 The dizzy edge with mournful sound ; 
 And of the scented lilies, (some 
 
 Of whose white flowers, the damsel said 
 Herself had gathered, and brought home 
 
 In memory of the minstrel maid,) 
 Still blooming on that fearful place. 
 
 Moore. 
 
 THE SHEPHERD OF KING ADMETUS. 
 
 Men called him but a shiftless youth. 
 
 In whom no good they saw. 
 And yet unwittingly, in truth. 
 
 They made his careless words their law. 
 And day by day more holy grew 
 
 Each spot where he had trod. 
 Till after-poets only knew 
 
 Thtir first-born brother was a god. 
 
 Lowell.
 
 SAPPHO. 
 
 FROM A GEM. 
 
 OOK on this brow ! The laurel wreath 
 
 Beamed on it like a wreath of fire ; 
 For passion gave the living breath 
 That shook the chords of Sappho's lyre. 
 
 Look on this brow ! The lowest slave. 
 The veriest wretch of want and care. 
 
 Might shudder at the lot that gave 
 Her genius, glory, and despair. 
 
 For from these lips were uttered sighs 
 
 That, more than fever, scorched the frame ; 
 
 And tears were rained from these bright eyes. 
 That from the heart like life-blood came. 
 
 She loved, — she felt the lightning gleam 
 That keenest strikes the loftiest mind, — 
 
 Life quenched in one ecstatic dream. 
 The world a waste, before, behind. 
 
 I
 
 1 14 The Forget-me-Not. 
 
 And she had hope — the treacherous hope. 
 The last, deep poison of the bowl. 
 
 That makes us drain it, drop by drop. 
 Nor lose one misery of soul. 
 
 Then all gave way — mind, passion, pride ; 
 
 She cast one weeping glance above. 
 Then buried in her bed, the tide. 
 
 The whole concentred strife of love. 
 
 Croly.
 
 CUPID AND PSYCHE. 
 
 HEY wove bright fables in the days of old. 
 
 When reason borrowed fancy's painted wings j 
 When truth's clear river flowed o'er sands of gold. 
 And told in song its high and mystic things ! 
 And such the sweet and solemn tale of her. 
 
 The pilgrim heart, to whom a dream was given 
 That led her through the world — Love's worshipper,— 
 To seek on earth for him whose home was heaven ! 
 
 In the full city, — by the haunted fount, — 
 
 Through the dim grotto's tracery of spars, — 
 'Mid the pine temples, on the moon-lit mount. 
 
 Where silence sits to listen to the stars ; 
 In the deep glade where dwells the brooding dove. 
 
 The painted valley, and the scented air. 
 She heard far echoes of the voice of Love, 
 
 And found his footsteps' traces everywhere. 
 
 1 2
 
 ii6 
 
 The Forget-me-Not. 
 
 But never more they met ! since doubts and fears. 
 Those phantom shapes that haunt and blight the 
 earth. 
 Had come 'twixt her, a child of sin and tears. 
 
 And that bright spirit of immortal birth ; 
 Until her pining soul and weeping eyes 
 Had learned to seek him only in the skies; 
 Till wings unto the weary heart were given. 
 And she became Love's angel bride in heaven ! 
 
 T. K. Harvev.
 
 CUPID CARRYING PROVISIONS. 
 
 FROM A GEM. 
 
 'HERE was once a gentle time 
 i'Whenne the worlde was in its prime, 
 And everye day was holydaye. 
 And everye monthe was lovelie Maye : 
 Cupid thenne hadde but to goe 
 Withe his purple winges and bowe, 
 And in blossomede vale and grove 
 Everie shepherde knelt to love. 
 
 Then a rosie, dimpiede cheeke. 
 And a blue eye, fonde and meeke. 
 And a ringlette-wreathenne browe. 
 Like hyacinthes on a bedde of snowe, 
 And a lowe voice silverre-sweete. 
 From a lippe without deceite, 
 Onlie those the heartes coulde move 
 Of the simple swaines to love. 
 
 But thatte time is gone and paste; 
 Canne the summerre alwaies laste ?
 
 The Forget-me-Not. 
 
 And the swaines are wiser growne, 
 
 And the harte is turnede to stone. 
 
 And the maidenne's rose maye witherre ; 
 
 Cupide's fledde, no manne knowes whitherre. 
 
 But another Cupide's come. 
 With a browe of care and gloome, 
 Fixed upon the earthlie molde, 
 Thinkinge of the suUene golde; 
 In his hande the bowe no more. 
 At his backe the householde store 
 That the bridalle golde muste buye, — 
 Uselesse now the smile and sighe. 
 But he weares the pinion stille, 
 Flyinge at the sighte of ille. 
 Oh for the olde true-love time 
 Whenne the worlde was in its prime ! 
 
 Croly.
 
 THE ORIGIN OF FABLE. 
 
 HAT has made the sage or poet write 
 But the fair paradise of Nature's light ? 
 In the calm grandeur of a sober line, 
 We see the waving of the mountain pine; 
 And when a tale is beautifully staid, 
 We feel the safety of a hawthorn glade. 
 When it is moving on luxurious wings. 
 The soul is lost in pleasant smotherings; 
 Fair dewy roses brush against our faces. 
 And flowering laurels spring from diamond vases. 
 O'erhead we see the jasmine and sweetbrier. 
 And bloomy grapes, laughing from green attire ; 
 While at our feet the voice of crystal bubbles 
 Charms us at once away from all our troubles ; 
 So that we feel uplifted from the worid. 
 Walking upon the white clouds, wreathed and curled. 
 So felt he who first told how Psyche went 
 On the smooth wind to realms of wonderment; 
 What Psyche felt, and Love, when their full lips 
 First touched ; what amorous and fondling nips 
 They gave each other's cheeks ; with all their sighs. 
 And how they kissed each other's tremulous eyes;
 
 I20 The Forget-me-Kot, 
 
 The silver lamp, — the ravishment, — the wonder. 
 The darkness, — loneliness, — the fearful thunder; 
 Their woes gone by, and both to heaven upflown. 
 To bow for gratitude before Jove's throne. 
 
 So did he feel who pulled the boughs aside. 
 That we might look into a forest wide. 
 Telling us how fair trembling Syrinx fled 
 Arcadian Pan, with such a fearful dread. 
 Poor nymph — poor Pan — how he did weep to find 
 Nought but a lovely sighing of the wind 
 Along the reedy stream ; a half heard strain, 
 Full of sweet desolation, balmy pain. 
 
 What first inspired a bard of old to sing 
 Narcissus pining o'er th' untainted spring.' 
 In some delicious ramble, he had found 
 A little space, with boughs all woven round, 
 And in the midst of all a clearer pool 
 Than e'er reflected, in its pleasant cool. 
 The blue sky, here and there serenely peeping 
 Through tendril wreaths fantastically creeping. 
 And on the bank a lonely flower he spied, 
 A meek and forlorn flower, with nought of pride. 
 Drooping its beauty o'er the watery clearness. 
 To woo its own sad image into nearness. 
 Deaf to light Zephyrus, it would not move. 
 But still would seem to droop, to pine, to love; 
 So while the poet stood in this sweet spot. 
 Some fainter gleamings o'er his fancy shot;
 
 The Origin of Fable. 121 
 
 Nor was it long ere he had told the tale 
 Of young Narcissus, and sad Echo's bale. 
 
 Where had he been from whose warm head outflew 
 
 That sweetest of all songs, that ever-new. 
 
 That aye-refreshing, pure deliciousness. 
 
 Coming ever to bless 
 
 The wanderer by moonlight, to him bringing 
 
 Shapes from the invisible world, unearthly singing 
 
 From out the middle air, from flowery nests, 
 
 And from the pillowy silkiness that rests 
 
 Full in the speculation of the stars ? 
 
 Ah ! surely he had burst our mortal bars; 
 
 Into some wondrous region he had gone 
 
 To search for thee, divine Endymion ! 
 
 He was a poet, sure a lover too. 
 
 Who stood on Latmos' top, what time there blew 
 
 Soft breezes from the myrtle vale below; 
 
 And brought, in faintness solemn, sweet, and slow, 
 
 A hymn from Dian's temple : while upswelling 
 
 The incense went to her own starry dwelling. 
 
 But though her face was clear as infant's eyes, 
 
 Though she stood smiling o'er the sacrifice. 
 
 The poet wept at her so piteous fate. 
 
 Wept that such beauty should be desolate ; 
 
 So, in fine wrath, some golden sounds he won. 
 
 And gave meek Cynthia her Endymion. 
 
 Keats.
 
 PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 A IN folly of another age. 
 This wandering over earth 
 To find the peace, by some dark sin 
 Banished our household hearth. 
 
 Return, with prayer and tear return, 
 
 To those who weep at home ; 
 To dry their tears will more avail. 
 
 Than o'er a world to roam. 
 
 There's hope for one who leaves with shame 
 
 The guilt that lured before ; 
 Remember, He who said " repent," 
 
 Said also " sin no more." 
 
 Return ! and in thy daily round 
 
 Of duty and of love, 
 Thou best wilt find that patient faith 
 
 Which lifts the soul above.
 
 Pilgrimage. 1 23 
 
 Around thee draw thine own home ties. 
 
 And with a chastened mind 
 In meek well-doing seek that peace. 
 
 No wandering will find. 
 
 In charity and penitence 
 
 Thy sin will be forgiven ; — 
 Pilgrim ! the heart is the true shrine 
 
 Whence prayers ascend to heaven. 
 
 Miss Landon. 
 
 A TRUTH. 
 
 *Tis the great Spirit, wide diffused 
 
 Through everything we see. 
 That with our spirits communeth 
 Of things mysterious — life and death. 
 Time and eternity. 
 
 Anonymous.
 
 THOUGHTS ON FLOWERS. 
 
 ATURE'S eternal jewels ! In old times. 
 With such as these the peasant girls of Greece 
 Fill'd high their laps, where the Eurotas strays ; 
 
 And in far ages, yet unborn and void. 
 
 Millions of village maidens will entwine 
 
 These starry glories in their dewy hair. 
 
 Man dies — but the immortal thoughts of man. 
 
 The common feelings of humanity. 
 
 Live on the same to-day as yesterday. 
 
 A memory of the past — a flower I love — 
 Not for itself — but that its name is linked 
 With names I love; and that 'twas once to me 
 An omen of success, when smilingly 
 Young friendship said that 'twould be ever so, — 
 Alas ! how vainly ! 
 
 There is religion in a flower; 
 
 Its still small voice is as the voice of conscience :
 
 Thoughts on Flowers. i: 
 
 Mountains and oceans, planets, suns, and systems. 
 
 Bear not the impress of Almighty power 
 
 In characters more legible than those 
 
 Which He hath written on the tiniest flower 
 
 Whose light bell bends beneath the dewdrop's weight. 
 
 The heart's affections — are they not like flowers ? 
 In life's first spring they blossom ; summer comes. 
 And 'neath the scorching blaze they droop apace ; 
 Autumn revives them not : in languid groups 
 They linger still, perchance, by grove or stream. 
 But Winter frowns, and gives them to the winds ; 
 They are all wither'd ! 
 
 Perchance 'tis very childishness that weaves 
 Fancies with flowers, and borrows from their hue 
 A colour for our thoughts; but if it be. 
 It is a weakness that will win a smile. 
 Not tempt a frown, from sage philosophy ; 
 Or if he frown, in sooth, he's not the sage 
 Men take him for. I would not give the love 
 My heart can feel for this frail harmless thing 
 Of green and gold, to be enshrined in all 
 The dusty grandeur of his worm-eat lore. 
 
 The Casket.
 
 LIGHT IN DARKNESS. 
 
 IGHT, stern, eternal, and alone. 
 
 Girded with solemn silence round, 
 Majestic on his starless throne 
 Sat brooding o'er the vast profound; 
 And there unbroken darkness lay. 
 
 Deeper than that which veils the tomb. 
 While circling ages wheel'd away 
 Unnoted 'mid the voiceless gloom. 
 
 Then moved upon the waveless deep 
 
 The quickening Spirit of the Lord, 
 And broken was its pulseless sleeg 
 
 Before the Everlasting word — 
 " Let there be light !" and listening earth. 
 
 With tree, and plant, and flowery sod, 
 "In the beginning" sprang to birth, 
 
 Obedient to the voice of God. 
 
 In glory bathed, the radiant day 
 
 Wore, like a king, his crown of light; 
 
 And girdled by the " Milky Way" 
 
 How queenly looked the star-gemmed night !
 
 Lisht in Darkness. 127 
 
 Bursting from choirs celestial, rang 
 Triumphantly the notes of song. 
 
 Creator ! let Thy Spirit shine 
 
 The darkness of our souls within. 
 And lead us by Thy grace divine 
 
 From the forbidden paths of sin. 
 And may that voice which bade the earth 
 
 From chaos and the realms of Night — 
 From doubt and darkness call us forth 
 
 To God's own liberty and light. 
 
 Thus made partakers of Thy love. 
 
 The baptism of the Spirit— ours. 
 Our grateful hearts shall rise above. 
 
 Renewed in purposes and powers. 
 And songs of joy again shall ring 
 
 Triumphant through the arch of heaven — 
 The glorious songs which angels sing 
 
 Exulting over souls forgiven. 
 
 W. H. Burleigh.
 
 128 The Forget-me-Not. 
 
 SELF-KNOWLEDGE. 
 
 OR while the face of outward things we find 
 Pleasing and fair, agreeable and sweet. 
 These things transport and carry out the mind 
 
 That with herself herself can never meet. 
 
 If ought can teach us ought, affliction's looks. 
 Making us look into ourselves more near, 
 
 Teach us to know ourselves beyond all books, 
 And all the learned schools that ever were. 
 
 This mistress lately pluck'd me by the ear. 
 And many a golden lesson hath me taught. 
 
 Hath made my senses quick, and reason clear, 
 Reform'd my will and rectified my thought. 
 
 So do the winds and thunder cleanse the air; 
 
 So working lees settle and purge the wine ; 
 So lopp'd and prune'd trees do flourish fair ; 
 
 So doth the fire the drossy gold refine. 
 
 I know my soul hath power to know all things. 
 Yet is she blind and ignorant in all ; 
 
 I know I'm one of nature's little kings. 
 Yet to the least and vilest things am thrall. 
 Sir John Davies.
 
 FLORE A L. 
 
 LOSSOMS vernal white, 
 Leaves autumnal yellow, 
 Make the landscape's youth all blight, 
 And its age all mellow. 
 
 Welcome then each bud ! 
 
 Welcome wood and dingle! 
 Where in nature's ample flood. 
 
 Leaves and blossoms mingle ! 
 
 Heaven, so Fable tells. 
 Hath celestial flowery 
 
 Meads divine of asphodels. 
 And amaranthine bowers. 
 
 Yet though earth's like reeds 
 God hath doom'd to perish. 
 
 Beauty lives in world born weeds 
 Beauty gods might cherish, 
 
 K
 
 130 The Forget-me-Not. 
 
 Welcome then each spray. 
 Welcome every bramble ; 
 
 Welcome budding woods of May, 
 Tempting feet to ramble. 
 
 Kent. 
 
 — The wise, who soar but never roam. 
 True to the kindred points of heaven and home. 
 Wordsworth.
 
 JEANIE MORRISON. 
 
 VE wander'd east, I've wander'd west, 
 
 Through mony a weary way ! 
 But never, never can forget 
 The luv o' life's young day. 
 The fire that's blawn on Beltane e'en 
 
 May weel be black gin Yule ; 
 But blacker fa' awaits the heart 
 Where first fond luve grows cule. 
 
 O dear, dear Jeanie Morrison, 
 
 The thochts o' bygane years 
 Still fling their shadows ower my path, 
 
 And blind my een wi' tears ! 
 They blind my een wi' saut, saut tears. 
 
 And sair and sick I pine. 
 As memory idly summons up 
 
 The blythe blinks o' langsyne. 
 
 'Twas then we luvit ilk ither weel, 
 
 'Twas then we twa did part : 
 Sweet time — sad time ! twa bairns at schule, 
 
 'Twa bairns and but ae heart! 
 
 K 2
 
 132 The Forget-me-Not. 
 
 'Twas then we sat on ae laigh bink. 
 
 To leir ilk ither lear; 
 And tones, and looks, and smiles were shed. 
 
 Remembered evermair. 
 
 I wonder, Jeanie, aften yet, 
 
 When sitting on that bink, 
 Cheek touchin' cheek, loof lock'd in loof. 
 
 What our wee heads could think ! 
 W'hen baith bent doun ower ae braid page 
 
 W^i' ae buik on our knee. 
 Thy lips were on thy lesson, but 
 
 My lesson was in thee. 
 
 Oh, mind ye how we hung our heads, 
 
 How cheeks brent red wi' shame. 
 Whene'er the schule-weans laughin' said. 
 
 We cleek'd thegither hame ? 
 And mind ye o' the Saturdays 
 
 (The schule then skail't at noon), 
 When we ran afF to speel the braes — 
 
 The broomy braes o' June : 
 
 My head rins round and round about. 
 
 My heart flows like a sea. 
 As ane by ane the thochts rush back 
 
 O' schule-time and o' thee. 
 O mornin' life ! O mornin' luve ! 
 
 O lichtsome days and lang. 
 When hinnied ho\ es around our hearts. 
 
 Like simmer blossoms sprang !
 
 Jeanie Morrisoji. 133 
 
 Oh, mind ye, luve, how aft we left 
 
 The deavin' dinsome toun. 
 To wander by the green burnside. 
 
 And hear its water croon ? 
 The simmer leaves hung ower our heads. 
 
 The flowers burst round our feet. 
 And in the gloaming o' the wud 
 
 The throssil whusslit sweet. 
 
 The throssil whusslit in the wud. 
 
 The burn sung to the trees. 
 And we, with nature's heart in tune. 
 
 Concerted harmonies; 
 And on the knowe abune the burn 
 
 For hours thegither sat 
 In the silentness o' joy, till baith 
 
 Wr very gladness grat. 
 
 Aye, aye, dear Jeanie Morrison, 
 
 Tears trinkled down your cheek. 
 Like dew-beads on a rose, yet nane 
 
 Had ony power to speak ! 
 That was a time, a blessed time. 
 
 When hearts were fresh and young. 
 When freely gush'd all feelings forth, 
 
 Unsyllabled — unsung ! 
 
 I marvel, Jeanie Morrison, 
 
 Gin I hae been to thee 
 As closely twined wi' earliest thochts 
 
 As ye hae been to me ?
 
 134 ^'^'^ Forget-me-Not. 
 
 Oh, tell me gin their music fills 
 
 Thine ear as it does mine; 
 Oh, say gin e'er your heart grows grit 
 
 Wi' dreamings o' langsyne! 
 
 I've wander'd east, I've wander'd west, 
 
 I've borne a weary lot ; 
 But in my wanderings far or near 
 
 Ye never were forgot. 
 The fount that first burst frae this heart 
 
 Still travels on its way. 
 And channels deeper as it rins. 
 
 The lite of luve's young day. 
 
 O dear, dear Jeanie Morrison, 
 
 Since we were sinder'd young, 
 I've never seen your face, nor heard 
 
 The music o' your tongue ; 
 But I could hug all wretchedness. 
 
 And happy could I dee. 
 Did I but ken your heart still dream'd 
 
 O' bygane days and me ! 
 
 William Motherwell.
 
 OF A' THE AIRTS THE WIND CAN BLAW. 
 
 F a' the airts the wind can blaw, 
 I dearly like the west. 
 For there the bonnie lassie lives, 
 The lassie I lo'e best : 
 The wild woods grow, and rivers row. 
 
 And mony a hill between ; 
 But day and night my fancy's flight 
 Is ever wi' mv Jean. 
 
 I see her in the dewy flowers, 
 
 I see her sweet and fair; 
 I hear her in the tunefu' birds, 
 
 I hear her charm the air : 
 There's not a bonnie flower that springs 
 
 By fountain, shaw% or green. 
 There's not a bcnnie bird that sings. 
 
 But minds me o' my Jean. 
 
 BURNfS.
 
 MAY-MORN SONG. 
 
 HE grass is wet with shining dews, 
 Their silver bells hang on each tree ; 
 While opening flower and bursting bud 
 Breathe incense forth unceasingly : 
 The mavis pipes in greenwood shaw, 
 
 'I he throstle glads the spreading thorn. 
 And cheerily the blythesome lark 
 Salutes the rosy face of morn. 
 'Tis early prime ; 
 
 And hark, haik, hark, 
 His merry chime 
 Chirrups the lark. 
 Chirrup, chirrup! he heralds in 
 The jolly sun with matin hymn. 
 
 Come, come, my love, and May-dews shake 
 In pailfuls from each drooping bough, 
 
 They'll give fresh lustre to the bloom 
 That breaks upon thy young cheek now. 
 
 O'er hill and dale, o'er waste and wood, 
 Aurora's smiles are streaming free ;
 
 May -Morn Soiig. i^y 
 
 With earth it seems brave holida\', 
 In heaven it looks high jubilee: 
 And it is right; 
 
 For mark, love, mark, 
 Howr, bathed in light. 
 Chirrups the lark. 
 Chirrup, chirrup ! he upward flies. 
 Like holy thoughts to cloudless skies. 
 
 They lack all heart who cannot feel 
 
 The voice of heaven within them thrill 
 In summer morn, when, mounting high 
 
 This merry minstrel sings his fill. 
 Now let us seek yon bosky dell. 
 
 Where brightest wildflowers choose to be. 
 And where its clear stream murmurs on. 
 Meet type of our love's purity. 
 No witness there ; 
 
 And o'er us, hark. 
 High in the air 
 Chirrups the lark. 
 Chirrup, chirrup ! away soars he. 
 Bearing to heaven my vows to thee. 
 
 Motherwell,
 
 MV AIN COUNTRIE. 
 
 HE sun rises bright in France, 
 
 And fair sets he; 
 But he has tint the blythe blink he had 
 
 In my ain countrie. 
 Oh, gladness comes to many 
 
 But sorrow comes to me, . 
 As I look o'er the wide ocean 
 
 To my ain countrie. 
 
 Oh, it's not my ain ruin 
 
 That saddens aye my e'e. 
 But the love I left in Galloway, 
 
 VVi' bonnie bairnies three; 
 My hamely hearth burnt bonnie. 
 
 And smiled my fair Marie: 
 I've left my heart behind me 
 
 In mv ain countrie.
 
 My Ain Conn trie. 139 
 
 The bud comes back to summer, 
 
 And the blossom to the tree; 
 But I win back — oh, never, 
 
 To my ain countrie. 
 I'm leal to the high Heaven, 
 
 Which will be leal to me; 
 And there I'll meet ye a' sunc 
 
 Frae my ain countrie. 
 
 Allan Cunningham. 
 
 DINNA FORGET. 
 
 DiNNA forget, laddie, dinna forget, 
 
 Mak' me not wish that we never had met, 
 
 Wide though we sever ; 
 
 Parted for ever, 
 
 Willie, when far awa', dinna forget. 
 
 When the star of the gloaming is shining above, 
 Think how aft it hath lighted the tryst of our love. 
 And deem it an angel's e'e heaven hath set 
 To watch thee, to warn thee. 
 Then dinna forget. 
 
 Anon.
 
 THE AULD MAN. 
 
 fm 
 
 UT lately seen in gladsome green. 
 The woods rejoiced tlie day. 
 Through gentle showers the laughing flowers 
 
 In double pride were gay; 
 But now our joys are fled 
 On winter blasts awa' ; 
 Yet maiden May, in rich array, 
 Again shall bring them a'. 
 
 But my white pow nae kindly thowe 
 
 Shall melt the snaws of age ; 
 My trunk of eild, but buss or beild. 
 
 Sinks in time's wintry rage. 
 Oh, age has weary days. 
 
 And nights o' sleepless pain ! 
 Thou golden time o' youthful prime. 
 
 Why com'st thou not again? 
 
 Burns.
 
 ADIEU FOR EVERMORE. 
 
 IT was a' for our richtfu' king 
 We left fair Scotland's strand ; 
 It was a' for our richtfu' king 
 We e'er saw Irish land, my dear, 
 We e'er saw Irish land. 
 
 Now a' is done that man can do. 
 
 And a' is done in vain : 
 My love, my native land, farewell; 
 
 For I maun cross the main, my dear, 
 For I maun cross the main. 
 
 He turn'd him richt and round about 
 
 Upon the Irish shore. 
 And ga'e his bridle-reins a shake. 
 
 With, adieu for evermore, my love. 
 With, adieu for evermore.
 
 142 The For et-me-Not. 
 
 The sodger frae the war returns, 
 
 The sailor frae the main ; 
 But I hae parted frae my love. 
 
 Never to meet again, my love. 
 Never to meet again. 
 
 When day is gane, and nicht is come. 
 And a' folk bound to sleep, 
 
 I think on him that's far awa' 
 
 The lee-lang night, and vi^eep, my dear. 
 The lee-lang night, and weep.
 
 FORGET-ME-NOT. 
 
 ORGET thee, love? — no, not whilst heaven 
 
 Spans its starred vault across the sky; 
 Oh, may I never be forgiven. 
 
 If e'er I cause that heart a sigh ! 
 Sooner shall the forget-me-not 
 
 Shun the fringed brook by w^hich it grows. 
 And pine for some sequestered spot, 
 
 Where not a silver ripple flows. 
 By the blue heaven that bends above me. 
 Dearly and fondly do I love thee ! 
 
 They fabled not in days of old 
 
 That love neglected soon will perish, — 
 Throughout all time the truth doth hold 
 
 That what we love we ever cherish. 
 For when the sun neglects the flower. 
 
 And the sweet pearly dews forsake it, 
 It hangs its head, and from that hour 
 
 Prays only unto death to take it. 
 So may I droop, by all above me, 
 If once this heart doth cease to love thee !
 
 144 T^he For get -vie- Not. 
 
 The turtle-dove that's lost its mate. 
 
 Hides in some gloomy greenwood shade. 
 And there alone mourns o'er its fate. 
 
 With plumes for ever disarrayed : 
 Alone! alone! it there sits cooing : — 
 
 Deem'st thou, my love, what it doth seek ? 
 'Tis death the mournful bird is wooing. 
 
 In murmurs through its plaintive beak. 
 So will I mourn, by all above me. 
 If in this world I cease to love thee ! 
 
 THE SHEPHERD TO THE FLOWERS. 
 
 Sweet violets, love's paradise, that spread 
 Your gracious odours, which you, couched, bear 
 
 Within your paly faces. 
 Upon the gentle wing of some calm-breathing wind, 
 
 That plays amidst the plain ! 
 
 If, by the favour of propitious stars, you gain. 
 Such grace as in my Lady's bosom place to find. 
 
 Be proud to touch those places : 
 And when her warmth your moisture forth doth wear 
 
 Whereby her dainty parts are sweetly fed. 
 You, honours of the flowery meads, I pray. 
 
 You pretty daughters of the earth and sun. 
 With mild and seemly breathing straight display 
 
 My bitter sighs that have my heart undone ! 
 
 Raleigh.
 
 SWEET DAY, SO COOL. 
 
 WEET day, so cool, so calm, so bright. 
 The bridal of the earth and sky. 
 Sweet dews shall weep thy fall to-night. 
 For thou must die. 
 
 Sweet rose, whose hue, angry and brave. 
 
 Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye. 
 Thy root is ever in its grave, — 
 
 And thou must die. 
 
 Sweet spring, full of sweet days and roses, 
 
 A box where sweets compacted lie; 
 My music shews you have your closes, — 
 And all must die. 
 
 Only a sweet and virtuous soul. 
 
 Like season'd timber, never gives, 
 But when the whole world turns to coal. 
 Then chiefly lives. 
 
 George Herbert. 
 3 i-
 
 THAT SONG AGAIN! 
 
 HAT song again ! its wailing strain 
 
 Brings back the thoughts of other hours. 
 The forms I ne'er may see again, — 
 And brierhtens all life's faded flowers. 
 
 In mournful murmurs o'er mine ear 
 Remember'd echoes seem to roll. 
 
 And sounds I never more can hear 
 Make music in my lonely soul. 
 
 That swell again ! — now full and high 
 The tide of feeling flows along. 
 
 And many a thought that claims a sigh 
 Seems mingling with the magic song. 
 
 The forms I loved — and loved in vain. 
 The hopes I nursed — to see them die. 
 
 With fleetness, brightness, through my brain 
 In phantom beauty wander by.
 
 That Song Again ! 147 
 
 Then touch the lyre, my own dear love ! 
 
 My soul is like a troubled sea. 
 And turns from all below, above, 
 
 In fondness, to the harp and thee ! 
 
 T. K. Hervey. 
 
 CUPID AND THE DIAL. 
 
 One day young frolic Cupid tried 
 
 To scatter roses o'er the hours. 
 And on the dial's face to hide 
 
 The course of time with many flowers. 
 
 By chance his rosy wreaths had wound 
 Upon the hands and forced them on ; 
 
 And when he look'd again he found 
 
 The hours had pass'd — the time was gone. 
 
 "Alas," said Love, and dropp'd his flowers, 
 " I've lost my time in idle playj 
 
 The sweeter I would make the hours. 
 The quicker they are pass'd away." 
 
 Anon.
 
 SERVANT TO A WOODEN CRADLE.' 
 
 lOME, visit the flowers, thy cousins, 
 God's dear little lamb, and mine ! 
 See where, lit by one flaming crystal. 
 The gems of the greenhouse shine! 
 The leaves of this rose thou shalt scatter 
 With the strength of thy infant will ; 
 Thou hast ravished the form of the flower, 
 See ! the heart keeps its sweetness still. 
 
 The flowers have a dark, sad mother, 
 Whose bosom is bare to view; 
 So they haste, in their springtide beauty. 
 To clothe her own heart anew. 
 They perish ; but she endureth. 
 To faint in the Winter's scorn. 
 With a life-warmth buried within her 
 Through which other Springs are born. 
 
 As the shadows dance hither and thi her. 
 The gleams of thy consciousness pass. 
 As a lamp wakes its fitful glimmer 
 In the heart of a sleeping glass.
 
 Servajit to a Wooden Cradle. 149 
 
 The shrouded ghost of the future 
 Stands near, while I hold thee fast ; 
 And the traits of my race turn slowly 
 My thoughts to the long-linked past. 
 
 O Future ! what sorrows gather 
 In the folds of thy hanging veil? 
 O Past, shalt thou flower further 
 In passions comprest and pale ! 
 O thou who art past and future, 
 Thou Present of life and soul ! 
 We lift our sad eyes to thy features. 
 Our thoughts to thy great control. 
 
 Thy manhood lies crouching within thee, 
 For the leap of its coming years ; 
 Thy heart takes its long vibration 
 From the mother's fountain of tears ; 
 The helpful things and the hurtful 
 Weave round thee their waiting spell : 
 Oh ! look to the God that commands them, 
 And all shall be suffered well. 
 
 Julia W. Howe.
 
 FLOWERS IN A GARDEN, 
 
 I HE rose like a nymph to the bath addrest. 
 Which unveiled the depth of her glowing breast. 
 Till, fold after fold, to the fainting air 
 The soul of her beauty and love lay bare ; 
 
 And the wand-like lily, which lifted up. 
 
 As a Maenad,, its moonlight-coloured cup. 
 
 Till the fiery star, which is its eye. 
 
 Gazed through the clear dew on the tender sky; 
 
 And the jessamine faint, and the sweet tuberose. 
 The sweetest flower for scent that blows ; 
 And all rare blossoms from every clime 
 Grew in that garden in perfect prime; 
 
 And on the stream whose inconstant bosom 
 Was prankt, under boughs of embowering blossom. 
 With golden and green light, slanting through 
 Their heaven of many a tangled hue, 
 
 Broad water-lilies lay tremulously. 
 
 And starry river-buds glimmered by. 
 
 And around them the soft stream did glide and dance 
 
 With a motion of sweet sound and radiance.
 
 Flowers. i ^ i 
 
 And the sinuous paths of lawn and of moss. 
 Which led through the garden along and across. 
 Some open at once to the sun and the breeze. 
 Some lost among bowers of blossoming trees. 
 
 Were all paved with daisies and delicate bells, 
 As fair as the fabulous asphodels. 
 And flowerets which drooping as day drooped too, 
 Fell mto pavilions, white, purple, and blue. 
 To roof the glow-worm from the evening dew. 
 
 And from this undefiled Paradise 
 The flowers (as an infant's awakening e\es 
 Smile on its mother, whose singing sweet 
 Can first lull, and at last must awaken it). 
 
 When heaven's blithe winds had unfolded them. 
 As mine-lamps enkindle a hidden gem. 
 Shone smiling to heaven, and everyone 
 Shared joy in the light of the gentle sun. 
 
 Shelley.
 
 [5a The Forget-me-Not. 
 
 REMEMBRANCE. 
 
 HERE was a time when thy dear face to me 
 Was but a dream, with nameless pangs between. 
 Three happy years upheld the fatal screen 
 Whose fall left blank and bitterness for thee. 
 
 As one who at a gracious drama sits, 
 
 And builds long vistas in its magic ways, 
 
 *' For this must come, and this;" and while he stays 
 
 The end consigns him to the silent streets : 
 
 So did I stand when thy sweet play was done. 
 Wondering what spell the curtain still should hide. 
 Waiting and weeping, till my saintly guide 
 Took by the hand, and pitying said, " Pass on." 
 
 So thou art hid again, and wilt not come 
 For any knockmg at the veiled door: 
 Nor mother-pangs, nor nature, can restore 
 The heart's delight and blossom of thy home. 
 
 And I with others, in the outer court. 
 
 Must sadly follow the excluding will. 
 
 In painful admiration of the skill 
 
 Of God, who speaks his sweetest sentence short. 
 
 Julia W. Howe {an American authoress), 
 
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